East Side Story
by Saturday
Summary: Forbidden love, knife fights, life, death, slash, and drug free opium dens in the Lower East Side. Rock on, New York. [a take on West Side Story]
1. Chapter One

Author's Note: I'm really off my rocker this time. Welcome to my rip-off of "West Side Story", a fantastic musical that I have just re-discovered in our store of movies. (However, you don't have to have seen the movie or play in order to understand the fic.) Alas, there will be no singing and dancing in this version, and I apologize for the inconvenience. I would also like to say that I have taken all of the newsies with dark hair -- that is to say Bumlets, Racetrack, and Itey -- and lumped them into the Puerto Rican gang. I sincerely hope that this doesn't offend anyone in any way.

Disclaimer: The newsies belong to Disney, any song lyrics belong to their respective bands/artists, and just about everything else belongs to the movie "West Side Story". I own Paul Shanley, West, Mouse, Rims, and Tempest, though, but I don't think they're going to be in this chapter.

.ooo.

**East Side Story -Chapter I.**

.ooo.

**Could be...  
Who knows?  
There's something due any day,  
I will know right away,  
Soon as it shows...  
It may come cannon-balling down through the sky,  
Gleam in its eye,  
Bright as a rose!  
Who knows?  
It's only just out of reach,  
Down the block, on a beach,  
Under a tree...  
I got a feeling there's a miracle due,  
Gonna come true,  
Coming to me!**

**- "Something's Coming", West Side Story**

.ooo.

"All right, we've got an order here for three burgers, four chicken Caesar salads, and two shakes -- kind of a lot for a couple of two, but whatever..." Mush Meyers looked up at his friend and raised an eyebrow. "What's up with you?"

Kid Blink took the slip of paper and pinned it to the wall, grinning. "What do you mean?"

"You haven't stopped smiling since we got here, and that was two and a half hours ago. C'mon, Blink, even _you_ aren't usually this happy."

Blink laughed. "I dunno..." he said vaguely, and he bent down to get the bowls for the salads. "I guess I've just got a feeling."

"A feeling?" Must repeated, leaning in over the counter to see his friend. "What kind of feeling?"

"...A good one, I guess."

"MEYERS! WHAT ARE YOU DOING? THERE ARE CUSTOMERS OUT THERE, DAMMIT!!"

"Sorry, Mr. Shanley, won't happen again!" Must yelped, but he turned back to Blink, who was now beginning the salads. "A good feeling about what?"

"You won't dig it."

"Aw c'mon, Blink, tell me!"

Blink stared at the Romaine lettuce he had just arranged in the first bowl, a smile still lingered on his face. "Like..." He licked his lips and looked up at Mush. "Like something's about to happen. Something big, something really good." He grinned and shook his head. "I dunno, maybe I'm just off my rocker."

Mush grinned back and punched his friend playfully in the shoulder. "Just don't--"

"MEYERS, IF YOU'RE NOT OUT THERE IN TEN SECONDS--"

"I'm going, I'm going!" Mush winked at Kid Blink. "Well I gotta go. Go with this feeling, though, all right? It could be something good."

"Yeah..." Blink watched his friend walk off before turning back to the salads. He really wasn't qualified for this job; he had no idea why they had let him in. But then again, he reasoned as he reached for the knife, it wasn't like he was working at some high-quality restaurant or anything. Paul Shanley's bar was pretty crummy, but it paid enough for Blink to scrape by. In the meantime he would work on his writing, and maybe one day he would make it big. He felt the smile on his face broaden as he pictured it: Isaac Parker, best-selling author, comes out with another incredibly successful novel--

"PARKER, NOT YOU, TOO! GET TO WORK!"

Blink jumped, jerked rather unpleasantly out of his reverie. He returned to the salads, unable to shake the mysterious feeling of excitement pulsing through his entire body. It was the kind of excitement you could hold in your hand, the kind you could taste on your tongue, and it was distracting Blink so much, he almost forgot to dress the salads.

Mush returned, smiling good-naturedly, and pushed another slip of paper onto the counter. "A glass of water and a small salad without dressing."

"A girl by herself, eh?"

"She's tiny. Wouldn't be able to eat an entire slice of pizza if I paid her," Mush chuckled, and he leaned back against the counter. "It'll be great to see the rest of the Jets tonight. Man, how long has it been? A week? You'd think we'd put in more of an effort to see each other..."

"Eh, we're guys. Being antisocial is our specialty." Blink put the finished salads on the counter and yelled over his shoulder, "Hey, Jackson! I need three cheeseburgers, medium-rare, all right?"

"Yeah, sure!" came the reply from the grill.

"And no buns," added Mush as he examined a mysterious bruise on his hand. "Now where did _this_ come from?"

"No buns, we've got Atkins fanatics here!" Blink called, grinning. "I've never had a cheeseburger without about a bun, have you? It looks pretty nasty, like a turd covered in melted cheese or something..."

"I wouldn't know; I've never needed Atkins," said Mush, and he flexed his stomach muscles. Blink laughed. "These salads done?"

"Yeah."

"MEYERS! IF I CATCH YOU SLACKING OFF ONE MORE TIME, YOU'RE GONNA NEED A NEW HAIRCUT!"

Mush whimpered, ran a hand through his perfect hair, and hurried away with the salads.

Blink wiped his hands on his pants and glanced up at the clock. Six thirty. His shift ended at eight o'clock, but the customers pretty much stopped ordering food by 7:30. Mush used this extra time to check out the blonde girls in skimpy tops who showed up with their boyfriends. Blink used the time to work on his writing.

But 7:30 came and went, and for once Kid Blink Parker found himself unable to focus on his stories. He was reduced to leaning against the counter, blankly watching the customers come and go and waiting for the inexplicable excitement to die down. "I've lost my mind," he said to himself, smiling.

"Well the fact that you're talking to yourself doesn't exactly contradict that statement," said Mush sagely, taking out a cigarette.

Blink rubbed his eye. "Do you believe in fate?"

"Now don't go getting all philosophical on me, Blink. The guy in the book I'm reading said the exact same thing before dropping dead of a heart attack, and I must say I'll miss you. You haven't been eating too much red meat, right? I've heard that's one of the major causes of clogged arteries. Wait -- aren't you a vegetarian? No, never mind, that's my sister..."

"'Cause, I mean, I have to be getting this feeling for a reason, right?" Blink continued, not hearing a word Mush was saying. "I'm not getting all excited over nothing, right?"

Mush lit his cigarette and offered it to Blink, who shook his head. Shrugging, he said, "Maybe you should just stop thinking about it and wait. I mean, maybe you're making it out to be something bigger than it is, y'know? Maybe your dog just had puppies or something."

"Yeah, maybe." He stopped. "My dog's a guy, man."

"What time is it?" Mush asked, leaning in over the counter. "7:56. SHWEET!!" He did a little victory dance right then and there in the store. "I'm off in four minutes, I'm off in four minutes!"

"MEYERS! THAT IS DISTURBING AND UNNECESSARY!"

"Sorry, sir! Won't happen again!!"

.ooo.

The Conlons were quite possibly the best-looking, most popular, most wealthy family in the Upper East Side. Gabriel Conlon was 19, dashing and charming, with a wide, white smile that sent girls into hysterics. He went by the name of Spot and was friendly with just about everyone in Manhattan, including the fairly large police force.

What most people didn't realize was that Spot was second-in-command for the New York gang known as the Jets, and he had been in more knife fights than you could count on your fingers and toes together. It came as quite a shock to most of the girls who liked to flirt with him at the bar -- but then again, it was also a bit of a turn-on. The rest of the Jets liked to call him "ole money bags" because he was the only member of the gang who didn't live in a tenement, but you would never be able to tell just by looking at him.

The leader of the gang was Jack Kelly, Spot's best friend since before anyone could remember. He was an odd fellow with an inexplicable lusting for the city of Santa Fe, New Mexico, but he was the best leader any of them could think of so he stayed at the top.

The Jets would meet on the public basketball court every Friday night and wreak havoc on the city of New York. Woe betide any poor, lonely soul who happened to be passing the court during those hours.

Jack arrived first, closely followed by Kid Blink and Mush. "Heya, Jack!" said Mush cheerfully. "Have a good week?"

"Terrible," Jack replied, spitting into his palm and shaking the other's hand. "How've you guys been doing? Blink, did you figure out what those nasty bugs in your place were?"

"Termites, according to my sister," said Blink. "But you never know with Jill, do you?"

"Damn. You gonna have to call some sorta pesticide dude or somethin'?"

"Yeah, probably."

"Today, Blink had a feel--" Mush began, but his friend kicked him, so he hushed up and quickly changed the subject. "Where are the others?"

Jack shrugged offhandedly. "Swifty's working late tonight, that's all I know." He glanced at his watch. "No idea where the other assholes are, though. Probably forgot or something."

"Don't you ever worry that something happened to 'em?" asked Blink.

Jack laughed and punched his friend in the shoulder. "You always were the sensitive one, weren't you? Damn, if you weren't so incredibly funny, I never would have let you into the gang. You lighten things up nicely." He smirked and took Mush's cigarette.

"Um... thank you."

Mush sat down cross-legged on the pavement and felt around in his pockets. "Dammit, Jack, that was my last one."

Jack shrugged again and blew smoke at him. "I'd give it back, but I haven't had a smoke in weeks, and I kinda need this." He grinned and turned back to Kid Blink. "So you found yourself a girl yet?" he asked casually through his cigarette.

Blink shifted awkwardly. "No."

"He really needs one," said Mush. He was lying down on his back now, eyes closed. "He's been getting all dreamy, it's ridiculous. He needs a girl to keep him down-to-earth." He smiled wistfully. "Some of those Puerto Rican girls are gorgeous, man."

"Yeah, it almost makes you wish we weren't up against the Sharks," Jack agreed, grinning. He stopped. "Nah, life wouldn't be the same without someone to push around. It'd be like the Yanks without the Red Sox or something..."

"Aw, shut up--"

Just then, two boys staggered into the basketball court, a handsome brunet supporting a would-be-handsome blond. "About fucking time," Jack snapped.

"Dutchy was drinking again," said the brunet dully as he set his friend down on the pavement.

"Well he shouldn't have done it on a fucking Friday night."

Blink closed his eye and leaned back against the fence. Dutchy had always been kinda messed up. He had grown up in New Jersey with seven other brothers, and because there were so many of them, their mother didn't want any of them out of her sight for more than ten minutes. They drove everywhere in an enormous, bus-like car, and whenever they acted up, she would swing her handbag at the back seat, smashing into anyone who got in her way. As a result of this, only three of the brothers grew up to have straight noses, and Dutchy was a little out of the ordinary. Took a handbag to the head at age nine, and was never the same since.

Jack glanced at his watch again and looked back at the boy. "Do _you _know where Spot is, Specs? And the rest of the guys?"

Specs shrugged. "Spot mighta blown us off."

"Well that ain't right." Jack tossed his cigarette onto the pavement and hit Specs lightly on the chest. "That ain't right, is it? 'Cause when you're a Jet, you're a Jet, all the way from your first cigarette to your last dying day. He can't just blow us off, the fucker."

Specs blinked. "It was only a suggestion," he said meekly.

"Yeah, well -- SPOT! Where the HELL have you been?"

The rest of the gang had entered the court, led by the notorious Spot Conlon. Blink noticed that they seemed to be dragging another figure along with them, but the guys got drunk so often that he thought nothing of it. "Heya, Kelly," said Spot calmly, his voice touched with a distinct Brooklyn accent.

"Do you know what time it is?" Jack demanded.

"Tell me, Jack; I generally don't carry a watch."

"You're ten fucking minutes late, Conlon."

"Really?" said Spot idly, lifting an eyebrow. Jack swung a punch at him, but Spot caught the fist before it could make contact with his body. "Whoa, easy there, Cowboy," he said, startled. "You been drinkin' or somethin'?"

"No," said Jack, and he carefully crushed his cigarette under his foot.

Spot smiled pleasantly at the rest of us. "Well, I would never _deliberately _anger our beloved leader," he said with a smirk. "There is, in fact, a reason for the other boys' and my tardiness. Let 'em see, guys."

The group of boys parted to reveal another boy, struggling fiercely against the hands that held him. He was a Puerto Rican whom they recognized vaguely from the other gang the Sharks, but Blink didn't know him by name. The boy looked back over his shoulder and shouted something in Spanish, but Jack stepped forward and, gently taking hold of the side of his face, forced the newcomer to meet his eyes.

It had never occurred to Blink that it was possible for one's jaw to drop so low, so quickly, that it was in danger of coming unhinged from the rest of one's skull. That night, he discovered that it was.

He knew immediately that this was what he had been waiting for all day when the jolt of unidentifiable excitement reached an all-time high in his body. The Puerto Rican boy was a sort of dark beauty, with long, black hair, mud-colored eyes, and a lean body that was poised to run. A knife was tight against his hip, and Jack unclipped it and slid the blade out. "Who is he?" he asked, coolly eyeing the gleaming metal.

"I think his friends call him Bumlets," said Spot. "At least, that's what it says on the tattoo on his back. Could be somethin' screwy in Spanish, though. I dunno."

"You been strippin' him?"

"Nah," Spot laughed, "just checkin' him out. Y'know, he's got a real tight ass--"

"SPOT," said Jack loudly, "I DON'T WANT TO HEAR IT."

Spot grinned and made an obscene tongue gesture, which caused several of the other boys to throw hats at him. It went without saying that Spot Conlon was blatantly gay (but he found rather sick pleasure in messing around with the girls who found him attractive). His two dogs were named Abercrombie and Fitch, he wore tight t-shirts with swearwords printed in sparkly letters across the chest, and he liked to watch "Bye Bye Birdie" when he was home alone. But that was why everyone loved him.

Jack, meanwhile, was still looking at the blade of the knife. In one slow, deliberate movement he brought it to the side of Bumlets' face and ran it delicately across the dark, angular cheek. The wound began to bleed gently.

Jack tossed the open knife to Kid Blink, who caught it. "Do what you want with 'im, Blink, I don't feel like thinking about it," he said, and he sat down on the pavement with Dutchy and Mush and began to talk about baseball.

Spot pushed Bumlets against Blink's chest. "Be creative," he said dryly, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Kid Blink wanted to answer, but he found himself unable to speak, due to the mysterious lump blocking his throat. Bumlets backed away from him so that they were literally a foot apart, and at the same instant that their eyes met, the world stopped.

Bumlets looked at the other boy, his eyebrows raised in an expression of slight surprise. Blink could tell that he, too, was trying to quell the feeling of excitement in his chest. "I've lost my mind," said the Puerto Rican quietly, not dropping Blink's gaze.

Blink chuckled and reached up to wipe the blood from the other boy's cheek. "I said the same thing this morning."

"So you've been waiting too?"

"For something. I couldn't figure out what."

Bumlets shook his head and muttered something in Spanish, before pushing his hands into his pockets and looking out over Blink's shoulder. "So how creative are you going to get?" he asked offhandedly. "Scar me up all you want, I don't care; I realized long ago that it's impossible to be a Shark and _not_ scars. I--" He stopped at the look on the blond's face. "What?"

Kid Blink Parker tossed the open blade from one hand to the other and then handed it to Bumlets. The latter accepted it slowly, his dark eyes fixed on Blink's blue one. "You outta your tree or something?" he asked quietly.

"I hope so."

"You've lost it."

"So have you."

"Point taken."

"Get out of here," said Blink suddenly.

"What?"

Blink bit his lip and shifted his weight. "Go back to wherever you were when Spot snagged you. I ain't gonna scar you up."

Bumlets stared at him. "You serious?" he asked.

"Go!"

And Bumlets did.

And the world un-froze, and Blink felt a small, hard body collide with his own. "You MORON!" Spot yelled, throwing a half-assed punch into Blink's stomach. "Where the hell WERE you? We were all tellin' you to cut the crap and just give him somethin' to remember, and then you FUCKIN' LET HIM GO!"

Blink was still staring after Bumlets' retreating back. "Yeah, I guess I did," he said slowly.

"DAMN RIGHT, YOU DID! HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND?"

"Spot!"

"Aw, get the hell off me, Jack, I can make my own decisions. Lemme get my hands dirty-- C'MERE YOU DIRTY, ROTTEN--"

But Blink wasn't listening. Hew was still looking out across the basketball court, and he jumped when Mush put a light hand on his shoulder. "Why _did_ you let 'im go, Blink?" he asked quietly.

Blink thought for a minute. Then, licking his lips, he looked at Mush and said, "I guess I just didn't get creative enough."

.ooo.**When you're a Jet,  
You're a Jet all the way  
From your first cigarette  
To your last dyin' day.  
When you're a Jet,  
If the spit hits the fan,  
You got brothers around,  
You're a family man!  
You're never alone,  
You're never disconnected!  
You're home with your own:  
When company's expected,  
You're well protected!  
Then you are set  
With a capital J,  
Which you'll never forget  
Till they cart you away.  
When you're a Jet,  
You stay  
A Jet!**

**-"Jet Song", West Side Story**

.ooo.

**Author's Note: **Et voilia. Zere is ze chapter numero un. ((pauses)) I've lost my mind. ((hops away to the insane asylum with Blink and Bumlets))

Boots: We are horrified. She has slashified "West Side Story". We didn't think it could be done.

Ohh, but it CAN, it CAN!! MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! I am GOD!! Ohh, that reminds me of when I went to Fair Harbor with my sister the other day, and she gave me this little bell to ring 'cause she knew it would amuse me vastly. And I was like "I AM THE RINGER OF THE BELL! ALL BOW DOWN TO THE RINGER OF THE BELL!" and this little boy bowed. It was the fucking funniest thing in the world.

All right, I'm going to go now. Leave a review and I'll love you forever-- more chapters coming soon!!

-Saturday


	2. Chapter Two

Author's Note: I'm thinking this is gonna be a relatively short project... I mean, it's only six chapters long, and I should be updating pretty regularly. I'm hoping to be done before I start school, but that might be a little too much to hope for, lol. In any case, enjoy!

Disclaimer: The newsies belong to Disney, I own West, Mouse, Tempest, and Rims, and everything else belongs to "West Side Story" (including Officer Krupke, whom I love dearly, and Anita).

.ooo.

****

East Side Story

Chapter II.

.ooo.

Maria!  
I've just met a girl named Maria,  
and suddenly that name  
will never be the same to me...

Maria! I've just kissed a girl named Maria,  
and suddenly I've found  
how wonderful a sound can be!

Maria! Say it loud and there's music playing—  
Say it soft and it's almost like praying—

Maria… I'll never stop saying Maria!

-"Maria", West Side Story

.ooo.

Dominic Lucero Orvantes y Ledesma Paredes had never been in love. In fact, nothing particularly interesting had happened to him in a very long time. He lived alone in an old, run-down tenement, and on Friday nights he met with his gang, the Sharks, in an alleyway. Indeed, meeting Kid Blink Parker was the most exciting thing that had happened to him in quite a while.

It was also rather exciting to be late for a meeting and have a plausible excuse. He had never done that before, either.

"Ah, _here_'s the numbskull!" Racetrack called as the other boy entered the alley. "Bumlets, you're twenty minutes late. West is not pleased."

"_Thank _you, Racetrack, but I think I can speak for myself," said West, chuckling despite himself. He was a tall, handsome Puerto Rican with a long fingers and a narrow, angular face. "Bumlets, I trust there's a reason for your lateness?"

Bumlets ran a finger along the still bleeding cut across his face. "The Jets," he said, looking idly at the blood staining his fingertip.

West stared at him. "The Jets?" he repeated. "What the hell happened with the Jets?"

"I'll bet it was Spot Conlon," said Mouse, clenching her delicate jaw. "That jackass tried to come on to me the other day, but I gave 'im a piece of my mind. I told 'im I wasn't no weak Puerto Rican sissy girl, I said, 'You get the hell away from me before I blow your brains out,' and he--"

West placed a hand gently over her mouth. "What happened, Bumlets?" he asked as if there had been no interruption.

Bumlets shrugged. "I was leavin' home, and I passed about seven of the guys on their way to the basketball court--"

"Was Conlon there?" Mouse asked, pushing West's hand away.

"Yeah."

"And they attacked you?" West demanded.

"Brought me to the court wit 'em," said Bumlets. "It was nothing, I was just in the wrong place at the wrong--"

"They brought you to the court with 'em?" Itey repeated, eyes wide.

"And you _survived?_" Racetrack said incredulously.

"Was Kelly on drugs?" Tempest demanded.

"HEY!" West yelled. "Let the guy talk, all right?"

Bumlets smiled at the taller boy. "Well they kind of poked at me for a while-- Conlon, I think he's queer or somethin'. Saw my tattoo, realized where I was comin' from, dragged me over to the court. Kelly didn't' seem too interested; he just talked a little and cut open my ch--"

"What the FUCK?" Tempest leaned in and examined Bumlets' face. He was West's brother, younger by one year, and the resemblance between the two was uncanny. He had a much shorter temper than West, and it had earned him his nickname and countless injuries.

"Hey, cool it," said West softly, placing a gentle hand on his brother's shoulder. "Keep goin', Bumlets."

"And then he sort of pushed me over to this other guy," Bumlets continued. "I'm not sure what his name is. He--" He stopped, looking out over Tempest's shoulder at nothing in particular. Who _was_ that boy, and why did Bumlets feel like he was high whenever he thought of him?

"Hey Bumlets, you done thinkin' yet?" said Racetrack impatiently.

Bumlets blinked. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I am."

They waited. "Well, what _happened_?" Tempest demanded finally.

"Oh." Bumlets shrugged and felt around in his pockets for a cigarette. "He let me go."

West laughed, then stopped when he realized the other boy was serious. "You're kidding, right? He just let you go?"

"I knew it! The Jets are all on drugs!"

"Shut up, Tempest."

"Yeah, he just let me go," said Bumlets with another shrug.

West chuckled and ran a hand through his hair. "I tell ya, every time I think I have those white crackers figured out, they throw me another curveball," he laughed.

A lump in the corner grunted in agreement. On closer inspection one would realize that the lump was actually an enormous human being with very little neck and a small, button nose. The lump's name was Rims, ad he was the brute-force section of the Sharks. He spoke an average of five words a day.

"Who _was_ this merciful Jet, anyway?" Racetrack asked, a grin tugging the corner of his mouth. "Kind of a bonehead, if you ask me."

"I don' know," said Bumlets, and his eyes widened slightly as realization hit him. "I never knew his name."

"Quite the Cinderella story, eh?" said Racetrack dryly.

Itey smacked the shorter boy's shoulder. "Don't say that; the curiosity is probably killing Bumlets, isn't it?"

"Yeah," said Bumlets.

"Enough of these stories, let's get down to business!" one of the other boys called out.

"To defeat the Huns," said Tempest with a wry smile.

West grinned at him, the only one who appreciated his brother's subtle sense of humor. "Yeah, we should just be glad you made it out alive," he said to Bumlets. "You need anything for that cut? It could get infected if you keep pokin' at it like that."

"Thanks, Mom, I'll be all right."

Mouse hopped up onto one of the trashcans in order to be seen better by the rest of the boys. She was a small, dark girl with close-cropped black hair, and she had entered the gang rather by force. None of them knew where she came from or whom she lived with, but she had excellent aim with a gun and a good Puerto Rican background. Her rodent-like features, small body, and irritating, high-pitched voice had had her labeled almost immediately as Mouse, but she didn't mind the nickname-- in fact, she cherished it as a symbol of her acceptance into the gang.

"Yeah?" said Tempest impatiently.

Mouse smiled pleasantly. "I say we get over to the basketball court now and give the Jets somethin' to remember!" she yelled.

"Atta girl!" Race shouted.

Itey glanced at his watch. "It's 10:30 now, and we've all gotta get back home by midnight or else the girls are gonna flip," he said. He had always been a reasonable kind of person.

"Hey, did any of you guys hear about the public dance coming up?" asked Tempest suddenly. "Tomorrow night, at the hall down the street-- it's an all-nighter, and the Jets shouldn't be there. Could be fun, eh?"

"Will there be girls?" asked Racetrack loudly.

"Yes," said Tempest.

"Shweet," said Racetrack.

West looked at Bumlets. "You wanna come?"

Bumlets was leaning against the wall, chewing on his thumbnail. He was still amazed that he didn't know that boy's name, that he hadn't bothered to ask when they had been face to face. How the hell was he supposed to find the guy now? He racked his mind for any distinguishing features. The boy had had sandy hair and blue eyes, but so did about half of the other Jets. His average height and build were no good, either.

Bumlets blinked. An eye patch. The boy had had a light brown, leather eye patch over his left eye, like a pirate-- and it was a bit of a turn-on. "Do you know any Jets with an eye patch?" he asked finally, looking up.

Racetrack burst out laughing. "Man, this kind must've had a traumatic experience or somethin'!" he laughed, punching his friend in the arm. "One-track mind, eh, Bumlets?"

"Yeah," said West. "Yeah, that's Kid Blink Parker, I think. Nice guy, I guess. Didn't he start the Jets with Jack Kelly?"

"Nah, that was Spot Conlon," said Itey.

"Oh yeah. Hard to keep my Jets trivia straight." West smiled. "So Parker let you go?" he said to Bumlets.

"Yeah." Bumlets was staring off into space again, happy to finally be able to match Blink's face with his name. Kid Blink Parker, he thought idly. It was a rather odd nickname, but Blink's form seemed to fit into it comfortably. A sender hand into a silken glove. Night rain over a cool lake.

He was thinking in irrelevant, cheesy metaphors now. Shit.

Mouse was still sanding on the trashcan. She seemed to like the extra four feet it added to her height. "Are we goin' down to the basketball court or not?" she demanded.

"Aye aye, cap'n!" Tempest yelled.

She looked at him. "Shut up."

"We _should_ go down there, though," said Race, shifting restlessly. "I haven't seen Spot Conlon in over a week. Life starts to get pretty boring when there aren't any homosexual, armed, angry midgets yelling obscene curses in thick Brooklyn accents at you around every corner, don't you think?"

"Hey, you are in NO POSITION to be calling anyone a midget, Mr. 5'3," said Mouse.

"Neither are you, Mrs. 5'1½," Racetrack replied smartly.

"But I _wasn't_ calling anyone a midget."

"But you were implying that _I_ am a midget."

"All right!" West yelled. "C'mon, you meatheads, we're headed to the basketball court to give the Jets a screwin' they'll never forget!"

"Why?" asked Bumlets, jerked out of his fantasies.

West raised his eyebrows, startled. "Well-- because they're there, and they're assholes," he said. He grinned. "And because Spot was checking you out. C'mon, guys, lets go!"

The basketball court was about ten minutes walk from the alleyway where the Sharks met. The two gangs had hated each other right from the very beginning; the Jets were pissed off that a group of no-good Puerto Ricans had invaded their territory, and the Sharks were pissed off that the Jets were pissed off. The results: total chaos.

Bumlets, however, was not looking forward to messing with the Jets tonight. In fact, he was thinking about a completely different topic altogether. He still couldn't get his mind off Kid Blink Parker, the Jet who seemed so incredibly different from all the others. Bumlets felt tortured by his lack of information about that boy; it was as though he had caught a ten-second glimpse of a movie that he would never get to see in its entirety. Damn.

"Research," said Bumlets.

"What?" said Mouse.

"Nothing."

By the end of the ten minute walk, Bumlets was rather proud of the amount of information he had been able to squeeze out of his friends about Kid Blink. He had a terrier named Edge, after U2's guitarist, but other than that he lived alone. He loved broccoli, macaroni and cheese, and the smell of sunscreen. He only liked mint chocolate-chip ice cream when it was green. He was afraid of heights. Bumlets smiled to himself and ran a hand through his hair, savoring his new trivia.

"Hey." Itey took his friend's arm and led him gently from the rest of the Sharks. "What's up?"

Bumlets lifted an eyebrow. "...The sky?"

"No-- augh, you're so-- I mean, why do you keep asking about this Parker guy? Did he...?" Itey squirmed slightly.

"What? NO! Ahhh, Itey, that's--"

"All right, all right, I'm sorry I asked!" said Itey, throwing his hands into the air. "It's just that you see a little ... preoccupied, I guess, thinkin' about him."

Bumlets paused. "I--"

"Yo Méndez, what the hell're you doin' here?" someone called.

The Puerto Ricans looked up to find themselves face to face with the Jets' leader, Jack Kelly. Behind him was the rest of his gang, apparently just coming back from the basketball court. Needless to say, none of them looked particularly happy to see an invading gang in their territory.

West stepped forward. Jack Kelly was the only person who ever got away with calling the Puerto Rican by his last name instead of his nickname. "We heard you were messin' with our pal, Bumlets, here," West said softly. He had been blessed with the gift of keeping people's attention without raising his voice.

"Yeah," said Jack coolly. "Woulda done more if Blink hadn't been such a moron. Anyway, what do you wanna do 'bout it, Rican?"

West looked calmly at the other boy. "This," he said, and he slammed his fist into the side of Jack's face.

Several of the Sharks whooped and cheered, and most of the Jets rushed forward to fight back at the Puerto Ricans. In the midst of it all, Bumlets spotted Blink standing rather awkwardly at the back of the crowd next to a dark boy Bumlets didn't recognize. Then the police were upon them, herding the two groups apart and yelling angrily about God knows what.

"Ah, Officer Krupke!" said Spot, hurrying forward and smiling enchantingly at the big, beefy policeman. "You know, I was _just_ thinkin' about you. My--"

"Hold it, Conlon, you're not sweet-talkin' your way out of this one," Krupke said flatly.

Spot's smile did not falter. "What do you mean, Officer?"

"This Rican boy hurt you, Kelly?" asked Krupke, turning to Jack.

"No, sir."

"Why is your face bleeding?"

"Ran into a wall, sir."

West was gently rubbing his bruised knuckles, his brother's hand on his shoulder. Neither of them flinched as Krupke turned to him and brought his big, red face up close to theirs. "Did you punch Kelly?" he demanded.

"No, sir," said West quietly.

"So this is all just some big, friendly _powwow_?" Krupke yelled.

"Yes, sir."

Krupke glanced at one of the policewomen, who shrugged, and walked back over to the Jets. "Well if these crazy immigrants give you any trouble, let me know, all right?" he said quietly.

"Will do," said Spot offhandedly, obviously not really listening. "All right, Officer, we'll see you around. We're just gonna continue our... friendly chat now, okay?"

"Bye!" chorused the two gangs, and Jack and West put their arms around each other's shoulders like brothers and grinned cheerily at him.

Krupke narrowed his eyes at them. "If I hear any more--"

"You won't!" said Spot quickly, and he slid his arm around Racetrack's waist. "See, we're having fun. Hooray! Good night, Officer Krupke!"

Krupke gave them one last suspicious look before signaling his fellow policemen to follow him away down the street. The teenagers watched the men until they were out of sight, and then the two groups separated as quickly as they could.

"I think I got cooties..." Racetrack muttered.

"RACE GERMS! HELP!" Spot yelped, wiping his hands on Swifty's rear end.

"Hey, watch it!" Swifty snapped, and he hurried to the safety of Specs and Dutchy.

Jack spat blood onto the sidewalk and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand; apparently his teeth had cut into the inside of his cheek when West had hit him. "We'll settle this later, Méndez."

"Catcha later, Cowboy," said West dryly. "C'mon, boys, let's get the hell out of this place. I'm feeling slightly sick, myself."

.ooo.

"My, you're looking spiffed up tonight," said Racetrack with a grin. "C'mon in, Itey's in the kitchen."

Bumlets entered the small apartment, closing the door behind him. "You guys almost ready?"

"Is that Bumlets?" called Itey from the other room.

"Yeah, now get your ass in here or we're gonna be late!" Race yelled back. "Have you seen my pants?"

"Do you really think I look 'spiffed up'?" Bumlets asked anxiously as Itey emerged from the kitchen, toothbrush in mouth.

"No, of course not," Race answered distractedly, sifting through the mountain of clothes on his bed.

Bumlets glanced at him. "Nice underwear," he noted

"Shut up, Bumlets."

"Y'know, I never thought of you as a briefs kind of person..."

"Shut _UP_, Bumlets!"

Itey laughed, choked on the toothpaste in his mouth, and ran back into the kitchen to spit it out. "Aha!" Racetrack yelled suddenly. "Who put my pants here? ITEY!"

"Time to go, boys, gotta pick up my sister," said Itey quickly, hurrying past Racetrack and out the door with a guilty expression on his face. Bumlets followed him, chuckling, and Racetrack managed to pull on his pants and catch up in time to smack Itey upside the head.

Bumlets had always liked to think of himself as a fairly decent dancer. Indeed, more often than not a young Puerto Rican girl, a slender, dark creature, would approach him on the dance floor and ask to be his partner-- which would cause Racetrack to flick his friend in the side of the head when the young beauty wasn't looking.

Tonight was no different. The three boys had not been on the floor for longer than five minutes when Bumlets felt a slender arm wrap irritatingly around his chest and heard a soft voice in his ear: "Dominic, I haven't seen you in almost two weeks."

"Oh, hey, Anita," said Bumlets resignedly.

She turned him around and looked him over, her hips swaying to the beat of the music. "You look great," she said.

"Yeah, you too," and she did. Her glossy, black hair was pulled to the back of her head in a sort of elegant knot, and she was wearing a dress made of a material that flowed nicely over her curves. She smiled flirtatiously at him, tilting her head to the side, and he looked away.

Anita frowned prettily. "You want to dance?" she asked, and he nodded. "Good." She took both his hands in hers and led him to the center of the floor, where the music was loud and the air was smoky. She was very happy.

Bumlets didn't recognize the song, and it didn't help that he was dancing with a girl in whom he had no sexual interest whatsoever. He allowed her to put his hands on her narrow waist, and the pair of them moved in time to the music. They passed West, who had his arms around Itey's sister, Leya, and who was looking most pleased with himself. "She's fantastic," he whispered to Bumlets.

Bumlets grinned at him. "Guess Itey should be expectin' you over for dinner sometime soon," he chuckled.

"Yeah," said West. He looked over Bumlets' shoulder, and the smile on his face flickered and faded. "Shit..." he muttered.

Jack Kelly was a few yards away in the crowded room, dancing with his girlfriend, Sarah Jacobs. He noticed Bumlets watching them and smiled mockingly, but Sarah pulled him away before he could do anything else.

Anita pressed her cheek against Bumlets'. "What are you thinking about?"

"You don't wanna know," he answered charmingly, and the song segued into something much faster. The change startled Bumlets slightly, but Anita reacted well and pulled him closer to her.

"Loosen up," she commanded, and he did, working their hips together. She was a very competent follower, and he swung her out to the extent of both their arms, pulled her back in, spun her under his arm, and together they stepped back, forward, side, back, his hand tightly gripping her waist, hers around his neck. The music was pounding through him, vibrating in his ribcage, until his heartbeat seemed to match the rhythm of the lyrics and he could no longer see anyone but his partner.

"You're doing very well," Anita whispered.

"Thank you."

Her stiletto heels clicked gently on the floor as he swung her out again and she moved alone through the sea of dancers. He reeled her back in until both their arms were wrapped gently around her body, and they stepped in time to the beat again. It was nothing particularly creative, sort of a combination of all the dances they knew, but they both pulled it off spectacularly.

And then something unusual happened.

Dominic Lucero Orvantes y Ledesma Paredes was not the type of person who got distracted while he was dancing; but by the slightest chance he glanced up while he was dipping Anita low, and he saw something that threw him offbeat completely. Kid Blink Parker was making his way through the crowd directly toward the dancing couple, looking nervous and wound-up and more beautiful than Bumlets had remembered him to be.

Bumlets almost dropped Anita. She cursed loudly and stumbled back, the clicking of her heels no lounger gentle and delicate. He ignored her and watched Kid Blink draw nearer, suddenly inexplicably excited and tense and even slightly nauseous.

"I've been thinkin' about you," said Blink quietly once he had reached the other boy.

Bumlets smiled. "I've been thinkin' about you, too."

.ooo.

**  
Dear kindly Sergeant Krupke,  
You gotta understand,  
It's just our bringin' up-ke  
That gets us out of hand.  
Our mothers all are junkies,  
Our fathers all are drunks.  
Golly Moses, natcherly we're punks!  
Gee, Officer Krupke, we're very upset;  
We never had the love that every child oughta get.  
We ain't no delinquents,  
We're misunderstood.  
Deep down inside us there is good!  
There is good!  
There is good, there is good,  
There is untapped good!  
Like inside the worst of us is good!**

-"Officer Krupke", West Side Story

.ooo.

Author's Note: And there you have it. Thanks to Sapphy, Aura, Repeat, Dakki, singin'-newsies-goil, Braids21, Dreamer110, Madison Square, Eagle Higgins-Conlon, and Coin for reviewing, I love you with an affection unspeakable!! ((tackles you all)) More coming soon-- please leave a review, constructive criticism is welcome!

-Saturday


	3. Chapter Three

Author's Note: I think the plant on the windowsill is alive. ((pauses)) That sounded odd. It's a fake plant. I think it's alive, and it's going to come and strangle me in the night. I'm extremely creeped out.

Disclaimer: The newsies belong to Disney, I own West, Tempest, Mouse, and Rims, and everything else belongs to the play "West Side Story". Simple enough, eh?

.o.

East Side Story - Chapter III.

.o.  
  
**There's a time for us,  
Some day a time for us,  
Time together with time to spare,  
Time to look, time to care,  
Someday!**

**Somewhere...  
We'll find a new way of living,  
We'll find a way of forgiving  
Somewhere,**

**Somewhere…**

**There's a place for us,  
A time and place for us.  
Hold my hand and we're half way there.  
Hold my hand and I'll take you there--  
Someday, Somehow,  
Somewhere!**

**-"Somewhere" - West Side Story**

.o.

Bumlets woke up on Sunday morning, incredibly confused and incredibly hung-over. He was lying on top of his rather small bed with his clothes and sneakers still on and a fine layer of stubble dusting the lower half of his face. He licked his lips and propped himself up on one elbow, immediately regretting his actions when a sharp pain exploded in his head.

"WherethfuckwasIlstnight..." he mumbled as he let his head drop back onto the pillow. He ran both hands through his hair and squeezed his eyes shut against the bright sunlight filtering into his room, wondering how he had managed to get such a major hangover.

Aha. He had left the dance early with Kid Blink Parker last night, both of them eager to escape the hatred radiating between the two gangs, and they had headed into a small restaurant a few blocks down. "I work here on weekdays," Blink had declared, flashing that wide, white smile of his. Bumlets remembered thinking that Blink had a much nicer smile than Anita. Around midnight it had begun to rain, but they were both too drunk to really take notice.

After that the memories were blurrier, fringed with the strong taste of cool liquor. The owner of the bar had eventually kicked them out-- perhaps. Or perhaps the two young men had left the restaurant of their own accord. In any case Bumlets could vaguely remember finding himself pressed against a cold, wet surface-- the wall of some obscure shop-- with Kid Blink's lips gently up against his.

Bumlets shot up in bed, ignoring the throbbing pain in his head, and looked at the digital clock on the floor beside his bed. It was 1:45 in the afternoon. "_Shit_."

There was a knock at his door. "Go away!" Bumlets yelled as he buried his face into his pillow. "Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit..."

The door opened anyway, and in stepped the one and only Racetrack Higgins. "You missed church this morning, buddy," he said with a grin.

"I _know_."

"Ooh, someone's hung-over."

"Fuck you, asshole."

Racetrack's smile broadened, and Bumlets decided that the shorter boy was mildly sadistic -- or else he had had a Botox injection last night without telling anyone. He removed his cap and placed it on the dresser by the door and approached his miserable friend. "Where were you last night?" he asked.

"At the dance," said Bumlets into his pillow.

"No -- after that."

Bumlets sat up and touched his lips. "I went home."

"Why?" asked Racetrack. He didn't sound suspicious or accusatory, simply curious. His dark eyes flickered over Bumlets' fully clothed body and tired face, but his expression did not reveal his thoughts. Damn poker face, Bumlets thought irritably as he dragged himself out of bed.

"'Cause Anita was botherin' me."

"She was _botherin' _you?"

"She's annoying."

"She's hot!"

Wrinkling his nose, Bumlets peeled off his shirt and dropped it to the floor. "Hey Race?" he said after a minute.

"Mm-hmm?"

"Don't you have anything better to do than watch me strip?"

Race grinned and sat down on the edge of his friend's bed. "No, not really."

"Oh." Bumlets sat down and yanked off his left shoe. "Damn."

"Has anyone ever told you that you look kind of like Keanu Reeves when you haven't shaved?" asked Race suddenly.

Bumlets looked up at him and lifted an eyebrow. "Um, no."

"Oh. Just wonderin'." Racetrack sighed happily and looked around the small bedroom. There was nothing particularly disgusting about it; it just didn't look clean. Everything was rather faded-- the bedspread, the flowery wallpaper (which the apartment's former occupants had loved, but which Bumlets was saving up his money to replace)-- and the few pictures on the walls were crooked and old. Classic Bumlets, thought Racetrack fondly. Head in the clouds, too busy dreaming to clean his friggin' room.

"I'm taking a shower," Bumlets announced.

"Well I would hope so," said Race, eyeing him with distaste.

Bumlets wrapped a towel around his waist. "Fuck off, Race," he said calmly, and he left the room, closing the door neatly behind him.

"Hey, did you hear about the meeting tonight?" Race called.

There came the sound of the shower being turned on in the bathroom. "I can't stay out late tonight; I have work tomorrow, remember? Mrs. Carone burst into tears the last time I came in late, and I'm not exactly eager to repeat the experience."

"The Jets'll be there," said Race.

There was a pause, and then the shower went off and Bumlets stuck his head in through the door. "Why will the Jets be there?" he asked

"That's what the meeting's about, dumbass. Last night, after you left, Jack and West swore at each other a little, flipped each other off a little, and decided to settle this crap once and for all. We're workin' out the hairier details tonight at Paul Shanley's pub-- I think some of Kelly's boys work there, so they fixed it that we can stay there after it closes. Come join us, dahling?"

Bumlets blinked. "Never say that again."

"Sorry, hon."

"You're incredibly homosexual, has anyone ever told you that?"

"Well-- no one except Spot, but he thinks everyone's homosexual so he doesn't count."

"Right." Bumlets ran a hand over his face, loving the prickly, masculine feeling it gave him. Keanu Reeves, eh? Damn, that guy was hot... "Yeah, I'll come."

"Good," said Race with a grin. "Now get your ass into the shower, you're stinkin' up the entire apartment."

"I won't shave, though."

"Don't."

"I won't."

"Good."

"I'm a sexy Keanu-Reeves look-alike, and I have sexy stubble."

"Go get 'em, tiger."

.o.

Kid Blink did not like spiders. He did not like being hung-over, either, and the fact that he was being forced to deal with both at once did not please him in the slightest. He licked his lips and ran a hand through his hair, not taking his eyes off the large, black spider that was making its way slowly up his left sleeve.

"What's goin' on?" asked Mush, glancing at him.

Blink took a deep breath and pulled the bug off his sleeve by one of its long, hairy legs. "Nothin'," he said, and he flung the thing as far as he could away from him. It hit the window of one of the shops and stayed there, glaring at him with eight glittering eyes. Blink quickened his pace.

Paul Shanley's restaurant was just ahead. The _CLOSED _sign was up on the door, but the lights were on and the main room was full of people anyway. Mush pushed open the door and Blink followed him in, squinting slightly against the bright light and smoky air. "BLINK! MUSH! OVER HERE!" someone called. The two boys pushed their way through the crowd to see Swifty sitting on the counter with Dutchy.

"Heya boys, what's happenin'?" said Mush cheerfully.

"Very little," said Swifty. "Dutchy is tryin' and failin' to teach me how to play Solitaire. We've been at it for the past twenty minutes. Help."

"It's true-- Dutchy barely knows how to play the game himself," said Specs, coming up behind them.

Mush leaned forward and examined the card arrangement. "Holy shit," he murmured, then, "Move over, lemme fix this. Jesus, Dutchy, where the hell did you learn to play?"

"Specs taught me," said Dutchy.

"An hour ago," said Specs.

Blink grinned and left the four boys to it, crossing the room to where Jack and West were talking quietly. It was really quite astounding how composed Jack was being; that Puerto Rican seemed to have a calming effect on people. "Hey, Blink, you got here," said Jack, smiling. "Mush come with you?"

"Yep," said Blink.

"I guess we can get started, then, now that everyone's here," said West, and he smiled grimly and put his cigarette butt in a nearby ashtray.

The meeting was called to order. It was nothing particularly organized; the Sharks and Jets simply gathered around the two leaders, who were still leaning against the counter. "Let's get this done with," said Jack, taking a drag from his cigarette. "We want to work things out once and for all, am I right?"

Spot whistled loudly, directly into Racetrack's ear. There was a loud smacking sound a yelp, and Blink distinctly heard Race mutter "Fucker" under his breath.

"Hey," said someone softly in Blink's ear. He turned and saw Bumlets at his shoulder, smiling lightly. He hadn't shaved yet, and Blink noticed (with extreme pleasure) that it gave him an uncanny resemblance to Keanu Reeves' character in "Much Ado About Nothing". Unbelievably sexy. Ahhh...

"Hey," Blink answered shakily.

"So what we're gonna do is have a sort of rumble to determine the ultimate winners and losers," Jack was saying. "Knives, guns--"

"No weapons," West interrupted.

"What?" said Jack, astounded.

"No weapons. We don't want any complications, yeah? It'll just be man to man, the way it should be, and the police will be less likely to suspect anything."

Jack frowned. "I dunno, Méndez," he said.

"Whatsa matter, Kelly? Afraid to touch dark skin?" West asked idly, examining a splinter embedded in the palm of his hand. "Nothin' but a lousy chicken, if you're just gonna hide behind the barrel of your gun." He smiled in a way that seemed pleasant but at the same time almost deprecating and flicked his hair out of his eyes. Cocky.

"Well every dog knows his own," said Jack softly.

"C'mon, Kelly, you turned nineteen in April."

"So what?" Jack snapped.

"So it's not just juvenile hall anymore, that's what. If Krupke catches you shootin' at one of my men, you could wind up in jail." West's smile broadened ever so slightly. "And we don't want that, do we?"

Jack was chewing on the end of his cigarette, brow furrowed, thinking hard. "Fine, no weapons. Man to man."

"Where's it gonna happen?" Mouse called out.

"Shit, it's the bulls!" yelled one of the boys from the window.

They had expected this, and they were ready for it. Race hoisted himself up onto the counter and immediately dealt out some cards for Spot, Rims, Mouse, Dutchy, Specs, and Tempest, and they began to play poker. Jack challenged West and Swifty to a game of darts, and Mush and Itey turned on the television in the corner. Everything was as it should be when Officer Krupke burst through the doors.

"I have to see you again," said Bumlets as Blink poured him a drink. "Before the rumble."

"Ah, Officer, _lovely _evenin', I daresay!" said Jack airily, his arm around West's shoulders. "Just havin' a little male-bondin' time with our _friends_." He emphasized the last word very much, smiled amiably, and took aim at the dart board.

"Tomorrow," Blink whispered.

"Male-bondin' time, eh?" Krupke repeated sardonically. "At ten o'clock at night?"

"Only time for it," Jack reassured him. "And look-- we're not even drinkin' alcohol! Nice, healthy lemonade, ain't that good? Show 'im, Blink."

Blink held up the pitcher and forced a smile. "I'll be at work here tomorrow afternoon, but I'll be off at eight," he said quietly to Bumlets.

The other boy smiled, and Blink decided that he looked like a nineteen-year-old son of Keanu Reeves and Johnny Damon. "I'll be there," he whispered.

Krupke was moving among the two gangs, eyeing them suspiciously. "Whatchya watchin', Meyers?" he asked Mush.

"Baseball, sir," Mush answered.

"Who's winnin'?"

"The Sox, sir."

"Red Sox fan, Meyers?"

"Yes, sir."

Krupke seemed to be considering placing Mush under arrest for this reason alone, but he shrugged the information off and turned back to Jack. "Well, I'm goin' back to my beat," he said. "There'd better not be any problems in here when I pass this place again, y'hear me?"

"Course, sir," said Jack politely.

"See you 'round, Kelly. If these Puerto Rican boys give you trouble, lemme know."

Krupke left. The instant the door swung closed, Racetrack gathered up the cards, Swifty put away the darts, Itey turned off the television, the two gangs separated like vinegar and water, and the meeting resumed. "The rumble'll be on the basketball court," said Jack as though there had been no interruption.

"Stupid," said Tempest. "Krupke'll find us; it's right on his beat."

"By the river, then."

"Too open. That's no good, either."

Jack rolled his eyes. "Well who died and left you in charge?" he demanded irritably. A few of the Jets snickered.

"Under the highway," said Blink suddenly, looking up from his lemonade.

"What?"

"Krupke'll never check under the highway. There's open space and easy escape routes in case we need to get out fast. It might work." He looked back down, unsure of why he had contributed to the meeting at all. He really didn't want the rumble to happen; the idea of seriously fighting with the Sharks terrified him, not only for himself, but for his fellow gang members. And Bumlets. His only comfort was that they weren't using knives-- he didn't want anyone else losing an eye.

There was a moment of thoughtful silence as the rest of the boys considered the suggestion. "Under the highway, then," said West finally. "What time?" He smiled devilishly through shaggy bangs. This was his element. He had a sort of fiery passion not unlike his brother's when it came to organized violence like rumbles, and his graceful hands seemed to itch to release all the anger and bitterness he had been keeping inside of him. It was quite alarming.

"Your call," said Jack.

"Wednesday. 11:00."

"Done."

They shook, looking like they wanted to crush each other's fingers. "Don't be late," said West. "No weapons-- man to man, remember."

"All right, all right, keep your pants on," said Jack coolly. This sounded rather preposterous at the moment, because the Puerto Rican had been nothing but calm and pleasant throughout the entire meeting-- it was Jack who was acting like a teenage girl at that special time of month. "I'll see you then, Méndez. No more fights till then--"

"And no more jumpin' my men," said West with a meaningful glance at Bumlets.

"Who jumped Swifty last Friday?" Jack snapped.

"Who jumped Itey on our first day here?" West replied.

"Who asked you to fucking move here in the first place?"

West laughed, putting a hand over his face. "Aw, Kelly," he chuckled, and then he straightened up again. "Well let's get outta this dump, Sharks. See you, Cowboy."

Jack flipped him off and tossed out his cigarette. "Bunch o' lousy chickens," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else, as the group of boys filtered out of the pub.

"Yeah, but that Racetrack..." said Spot faintly as the door closed behind the sharks. "I'll tell ya, his ass is almost as nice as Bumlets'."

Jack finished his lemonade. "Hey Spot?"

"Hmm?"

"Shut up."

.o.

Bumlets had no idea how it had happened, but somehow his pack of cigarettes had fallen into the hands of Racetrack (who was now offering them around the room), his apartment had been transformed into a hang-out area for fifteen sweaty boys, and Anita had planted herself firmly on his lap and was stroking his stubbly face. He made a mental note to shave it all off as soon as it was humanly possible.

"Krupke's a racist son of a bitch," said Tempest with conviction as he accepted a cigarette from Race. "I swear if we were white, he wouldn't give a damn about whether we fought with the Jets or not."

"Aw c'mon, Tempest, you know that's not true," said Anita.

"It damn well is true," Tempest snapped. "It's true everywhere we fucking go. D'you know, I got a job as a delivery boy last week, and the guy took one look at my face and turned me down. How's that for the land of the free, hmm?"

"He wasn't being discriminatory, he was just terrified of your ugliness," said Anita, and she and Leya sniggered irritatingly.

On the whole, Bumlets decided that he didn't like girls much at all. They were loud and giggly and beautiful and wore ridiculously high shoes, and they were overpowering his masculine environment. He had even heard one girl, Rosalia, talking to Anita about redecorating his place. What the fuck...

"No, I gotta say I agree with Tempest." Race leaned against the table and pulled out his lighter. "Considerin' we _are _livin' in the land of the free, I haven't seen much freedom-- for anyone but whites, anyway."

"I miss Puerto Rico," said Mouse after a moment. There was an unusual tone in her voice; she sounded nostalgic rather than loud and determined, and it startled everyone.

Anita tossed her head back, dark curls getting in Bumlets' face and making him cough. "Puerto Rico-- what an ugly island. Man it sink back into the ocean, for all I care," she said disdainfully.

"Too many bullets, to many hurricanes, too many people..." Leya ticked them off on her fingers, frowning. "I like it better here," she said, and she leaned her head against Itey's shoulder and closed her eyes.

"I like the island Manhattan," announced Rosalia.

"Of course you do," said Bumlets. "You ladies don't see half of what's goin' on; you don't have to deal with the police--"

Anita stood up angrily. "Are you trying to say that we don't know what America's really like?" she snapped

"Yes, he is," said Mouse with a smile.

"I fucking live in New York City!"

Bumlets quickly crossed his legs to prevent Anita from returning to his lap. "But you obviously don't really know it, because you seem to be under the impression that whites aren't treated better than the rest of us," he said evenly.

"I have a washing machine," Anita whispered, a deadly glint in her eyes. "No one had a washing machine in Puerto Rico; it was to expensive."

"Oh, that's nice," said Tempest. "Or it would be, if you had any clothes to keep clean. You spent all your money on the washing machine, and you're too poor to get anything to use it on."

Anita kicked him.

"I don't care what you say, but the boys here are definitely cuter than they are in San Juan," said Rosalia firmly.

"Gotta agree with you there," said Race dryly. Mouse laughed and punched his shoulder playfully, and he winked at her and took another drag from his cigarette.

"Anyway, how does that help you?" Itey said reasonably. "At least in San Juan, you were allowed to date the good-lookin' boys, such as myself. Here, the guys take one look at the color of your skin and run as fast as they can in the other direction."

"Honestly, the way we're goin', soon we're gonna have to marry our own brothers and sisters to avoid extinction," said Tempest, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Ow-- shit, Anita, would you stop kickin' me?"

Itey stood up. "We should go to bed," he said firmly.

"Not here, I don't have enough beds!" Bumlets yelped.

"No, not here, you lunatic, I meant we should go home. We all have work tomorrow--"

"Except for Tempest, who's still unemployed," said Race.

"I hear he's looking into an occupation as a manwhore," said West.

"I am NOT!" yelled Tempest.

"He'd be good at it, too," said Race. "Very seductive, that Tempest."

"Oh, definitely."

"Shut UP, asshole!"

"That would be ass_holes_, bro. There are _two_ of us."

Bumlets stood up. "All right, everyone, get the HELL out of my apartment!" he yelled, and he herded them out and closed the door behind them. He could hear their laughing and bickering all down the hallway, and he smiled to himself. Lunatics...

.o.

**Puerto Rico...**

**You lovely island...**

**Island of tropical breezes.**

**Always the pineapples growing,**

**Always the coffee blossoms blowing.**

**Puerto Rico...**

**You ugly island...**

**Island of tropic diseases.**

**Always the hurricanes blowing,**

**Always the population growing...**

**And the money owing,**

**And the babies crying,**

**And the bullets flying.**

**I like the island Manhattan--**

**Smoke on your pipe and put that in!**

**-"America", West Side Story**

.o.

**Author's Note:** ((sings)) ONLY YOU, YOU ARE THE ONLY LIGHT I SEEEEEE, FOREEEEVEEEEEEEEER! IN MY EYES, IN MY WORDS, AND IN EVERYTHING I DOOOO! NOTHING IS BUT YOOOOOOOU, EVER!

Racetrack: AND THERE'S NOTHING FOR ME BUT SATURDAY! EVERY SIGHT THAT I SEE IS SATURDAY!

RACETRACK, RACETRACK...

Racetrack: ((picks me up)) ALWAYS YOU, EVERY THOUGHT I'LL EVER KNOOOOOOOOOOOW! EVERYWHERE I GOOOOOO, YOU'LL BEEEEEE!

((sing together)) ALL THE WORLD IS ONLY YOOOOOOOOU AND MEEEEEEEEEEEE!!

((sighs happily)) Yes, when I fall in love, _that _is how I'm gonna do it. So Race, I owe you how much?

Racetrack: A hundred bucks, you romantic loser. And NEVER make me do that again. ((drops me)) ((holds out hand for money))

((frowns from the floor)) That seems kinda steep, Higgins. How 'bout I give you a nickel and we call it even? ((cowers under his furious gaze)) All right, all right, I was just kidding... heh heh... ((gives him a hundred dollar bill)) Sheesh.

Racetrack: ((to audience)) Please review, or she's gonna make me do that again... Her theory is that if she doesn't get enough love from her reviewers, she'll just squeeze it out of me. And it hurts.

((smiling happily)) Heart-shaped cookies for Strawberri Shake, rumor, Scout73, Madison Square, Braids21, Dreamer110, Sapphy, and Coin because I adore you guys!! MWAH! ((skips away, whistling "West Side Story" songs))

-Saturday


	4. Chapter Four

Author's Note: Yeah, I'm sure you were all wondering "When the hell is she gonna put in 'I Feel Pretty'? It's the best frickin' song in the whole show!! AHH!" Well I put it in today. ;-)

Disclaimer: The newsies belong to Disney, West, Mouse, Rims, and Tempest belong to me, and everything else you see belongs to the musical "West Side Story".

.o.

East Side Story - Chapter IV.

.o.

I feel pretty,  
Oh so pretty,  
I feel pretty and witty and bright,  
And I pity any girl who isn't me tonight!

I feel charming,  
Oh so charming,  
It's alarming how charming I feel,  
And so pretty that I hardly can believe I'm real!

See the pretty girl in that mirror there?

Who can that attractive girl be?

Such a pretty face,

Such a pretty dress,

Such a pretty smile,

Such a pretty me!

I feel stunning  
And entrancing,  
Feel like running and dancing for joy,  
For I'm loved by a pretty, wonderful boy!

-"I Feel Pretty", West Side Story

.o.

"I feel pretty," Blink announced happily on Monday evening.

Mush looked at him, one eyebrow raised. "You feel... _pretty_," he repeated as he accepted a stack of dirty dishes from one of the waitresses. "Well you _sound _incredibly homosexual."

"Oh, but I am."

"What? Pretty or homosexual?"

Blink paused. "Both, I guess," he said, and Mush laughed.

The two boys were currently on kitchen duty at Paul Shanley's restaurant, scrubbing and drying and replacing dishes onto the shelves. It was a relatively simple task for two notorious troublemakers, according to Mr. Shanley. It was also Blink's and Mush's last chance, because they had managed to work their way through all the other positions -- Mush had begun to make out with one of the young women whom he was serving on his first day as a water, which greatly distressed her mother; Blink had almost lit the entire building on fire during his short employment behind the grill; Mush had yet to successfully scoop an ice cream cone without eating it himself; an alarmed customer had found a slug in his salad, due to the fact that Blink had decided to be daring and not wash the Romaine lettuce; and both boys had turned the area behind the bar into a catwalk, where they modeled their uniform t-shirts in various fashions and refused to serve anyone.

So far, the position as dishwashers seemed to be working fairly well. Mush couldn't see the pretty female customers when he was so far back into the kitchen, and Blink was being extra careful not to break any plates this time. Mr. Shanley was very pleased.

"BLINK FEELS PRETTY!" sang Mush blithely. "OH SO PRETTY! BLINK FEELS PRETTY AND WITTY AND GAAAAAAY!"

"MEYERS! WHAT DID I SAY ABOUT SINGING?"

"Wasn't me, sir! A man came in through the window and started singin', and Blink and I tried to catch 'im, but he just ran out the window again, laughin'! Honest, sir!"

"AND WHAT DID I SAY ABOUT LAME EXCUSES?"

"Sorry, sir, won't happen again!"

Blink squatted down to replace a few clean dishes on the bottom shelf. "Mush, you're gonna get us fired," he said, but he was grinning.

"Nah, he'll never fire us," said Mush lightly. "He loves me too much."

"MEYERS! QUIT DAWDLING AND GET TO WORK!"

"Sorry, sir!" Mush yelped, turning back to the dishes and ignoring Blink's sniggers. He turned on the hot water, filled his mouth with it, and spat it at his friend. "So are you comin' to the Opium Den tonight?"

He wasn't talking about a real opium den, because Specs would have a mental breakdown if he found out that his friends were drug addicts. (He was the only Jet who didn't smoke, drink, or have unsafe sex under any circumstances.) Swifty's apartment was small, warm, and had a faint, sweet smell emanating from everything. The entire complex was earthy and a rich red color, and the walls were lined with flat, cushioned benches; so it was, essentially, a drug-free opium den. The Jets hung out there as frequently as possibly to talk, sleep, philosophize, and listen to Specs read Shakespeare aloud.

Blink licked his lips. "Nah, can't. I'm tired, I think I'll turn in early tonight."

"Okay," said Mush with a smile, and he balanced a stack of clean salad bowls on his head and shimmied across the kitchen to put them away. Astonishingly, he didn't break a single one.

Blink felt awful. He hated lying to his best friend, but he knew that it was the only way he and Bumlets could be together. _Ohh, that sounds terrible, _he thought, horrified. _Like a cheesy romance novel. Congratulations, Blink, you have just proved yourself to be about as worth spending time with as the spaghetti sauce encrusting this place. _He picked up a sponge, scrubbed the plate clean, and felt very sorry for himself.

Before he knew it, it was 8:00 and Paul Shanley was kicking out the last of the customers and beginning to close the restaurant. Blink, Mush, and the rest of the employees happily peeled off their rubber gloves, pocketed their nametags, and (in the case of Mush) took off their shirts and wrapped them around their heads like turbans.

Blink glanced at his watch and hurried past Mush, who was doing an odd sort of belly dance, to where Mr. Shanley was putting up chairs. He smiled. "I could lock up tonight, Mr. Shanley, if you want."

"Why?" Mr. Shanley asked suspiciously.

"Why?" Mush demanded, astonished.

Blink shrugged. "Because I feel like... being helpful?"

Mr. Shanley looking him over, beady eyes still narrowed distrustfully. Finally, he tossed Blink the keys. "Don't do anything stupid, Parker. I want the chairs up, shades down, lights off, and the door locked. Got it?"

"Yes, sir," said Blink.

"All right, boys, pack it up!"

The rest of the employees trooped out of the restaurant, but Mush didn't move. "Why?" he asked again, his eyebrows in danger of disappearing into his hair.

"I already said."

"Oh," said Mush, and he put back on his shirt. "Do you want any help or anythin'? The guys won't miss me if I'm late."

"No, I'm all right," said Blink. "Thanks."

"No problem." Mush put his hands in his pockets and examined the floor. Blink turned to put up a chair, and when he glanced back, Mush had gone.

"Shit," said Blink. "I _suck_."

Ordinarily, he would have rather enjoyed the peace and quiet of the empty restaurant, but he was too miserable to enjoy anything at the moment. He put the rest of the chairs up, humming tunelessly, and then lifted himself up onto the counter and swung his legs a little. He glanced at his watch several times in a row. He tapped his fingers impatiently. He made himself a milkshake behind the bar and drank it. He was extremely bored.

"HE HAD IT COMIN'! HE HAD IT COMIN'! HE ONLY HAD HIMSELF TO BLAAAAME! IF YOU'DA BEEN THERE, IF YOU'DA SEEN IT, I'LL BETCHA YOU WOULD HAVE DONE THE SAAAAME!" Blink did a very seductive, _very_ feminine little dance on the counter (thank god he had pulled the shades down earlier), ran his hands through his hair spun around on his heel, and found himself face to face with Bumlets.

"That was much better than Catherine Zeta-Jones," said the Puerto Rican boy.

"Thank you," said Blink, and he turned a very interesting shade of pink and melted into a puddle on the counter.

Bumlets took off his jacket and hung it up on a nearby coat stand. "Sorry I'm late," he said with a grin. "Were you waiting long?"

"No, not long," lied Blink the Puddle.

"Good." A smile spread across Bumlets face, and then faded slightly as his brow furrowed in thought. Blink loved when he did that; he was so indecisive. "I've been thinkin' about you all day, and I've decided I'm in love with you," said Bumlets finally.

Blink opened his mouth. Whoa. Man. Bumlets was looking at the floor, slightly embarrassed, his hair hanging in his eyes. "Bumlets," said Blink.

The darker boy didn't look up. "Yeah, Blink?"

"No one's ever said that to me before," said Blink.

"Oh."

"I love you, too," said Blink. He didn't know where the words were coming from (certainly not _his own mouth_), but he did know that they were true. He had never met anyone like Bumlets before, and he loved everything about him, right down to his unreasonable fetish for soap bubbles. He grinned. Awesome. "And if you're pullin' my leg, I'm gonna be extremely upset."

"I don't know how to joke like that, Blink. You know that." Bumlets met the other boy's eyes and smiled. "Shall we kiss passionately and complete the cheesy, romantic moment?"

"Yes," said Blink, and they did. He ran a hand through Bumlets' hair, wanting the color to rub off in his fingers so that he could keep it with him always, tattooed to his fingertips. The darker boy's tongue touched his, and Blink realized that Bumlets could probably taste the milkshake he had drunk earlier. _I hope he likes strawberry, _he thought anxiously.

Bumlets pulled away. "Let's move to Switzerland," he said.

"And adopt ten children," said Blink.

"And an ugly, old mutt named Thelma," said Bumlets.

"And teach her to sing songs from 'Mary Poppins'," said Blink, and they kissed again.

There was a noise at the front of the pub. The two boys broke apart, panting slightly, to see Mush standing in the open doorway, looking absolutely flabbergasted. "I forgot my coat," he said, wide eyes going from Blink to Bumlets and back to Blink. "I'll go get it and leave you two alone."

Blink gripped a chair leg and glanced at Bumlets, who was leaning forward against the tabletop, looking indolently down at nothing in particular. "Mush!" said Blink jerkily.

The other boy didn't answer, crossing the room to the closet. Blink followed him, wringing his hands and looking exactly like a concerned mother. "Listen to me, okay? Just listen to me for a minute, and then you can yell at me all you want. I didn't _want_ to lie to anyone, especially not to you, but this is a classic Romeo and Juliet situation here!"

"Did you know that David Beckham named one of his sons Romeo?" said Mush mildly, pulling on his jacket. "Romeo and Brooklyn. Their names are tattooed onto his back."

"The Sharks all have our nicknames tattooed onto our lower backs," said Bumlets without looking up. "It's kind of a representation of our loyalty to the gang, y'know? I got mine about a year ago."

"Did it hurt?" asked Mush.

"Yeah," said Bumlets.

"GUYYYYS!" Blink whined, covering his face with his hands. "Mush, I'm sorry I lied to you. I know you're pissed at me 'cause you always start reciting random trivia when you're pissed, but you have every right to be mad at me, and I'll understand if you don't feel like talking to me for a while. It's just--"

Mush leaned in close, face full of concern. "Blink, he's a Shark," he said softly.

"So?" said Blink indignantly.

"_So--_" Mush glanced at Bumlets, who was tracing patterns over the tabletop with one long, brown finger, and lowered his voice. "So it won't work. Don't you see? You couldn't possibly go together, because your people and his people just don't mix. You're just gonna get someone killed, Blink, c'mon."

"Mush, I love him," said Blink angrily, almost whispering.

"No you don't," Mush answered, eyes wide. "Blink, for all you know he's just trying to get information about the rumble or somethin'. He's a fucking Puerto Rican!"

"And I'm a Caucasian with one eye. He. Doesn't. Care. And neither do I. We're a hundred fucking feet in the air, and it's great."

Mush glanced up at the ceiling and then pulled the rim of his hat over his eyes. "I'll see you later, Parker." He smiled numbly and began to walk out the door.

"You won't tell, Mush?"

"Tell what? How can I hear what's goin' on a hundred feet over my head?" said Mush dryly. "Night, gentlemen."

"Good night," said Bumlets quietly from the table.

The door clicked shut behind the African boy, and Blink turned to Bumlets. "Did you hear all that?" he asked softly. Bumlets nodded, eyes still on the table. "I'm sorry."

He looked up and smiled faintly. "S'all right," he said, and he flicked his bangs out of his eyes. "I should probably go. Ill see ya later, Blink."

"Hey." Blink caught the other boy's arm as he was making to leave. "We're still movin' to Switzerland, right? With Thelma?"

Bumlets grinned "Yeah," he said. "Of course we are. I'd kill myself if I had to spend the rest of my life in Manhattan." He winked. "Night, Blink."

"Night," said Blink. He watched Bumlets leave until he could no longer see him, smiling to himself.

Then he really began to lock up the restaurant.

.o.

"'What should I do with him? Dress him up in my apparel and make him my waiting-gentlewoman? He that hath a beard is more than a youth, and he that hath no beard is less than a man: and he that is more than a youth is not for me, and he that is less than a man, I am not for him: therefore, I will even take sixpence in earnest of his beard-ward, and lead his apes in hell.'"

The room was silent for a minute as Specs frowned thoughtfully at the book in his hands and the rest of the Jets tried to figure out what the hell that meant. Then Jack began to laugh from one of the benches, his face buried in Spot's chest. "That Will Shakespeare, he really knows how to make 'em laugh..." he giggled, and he snorted loudly and took another swig of the bottle in his hand.

"Jesus Christ..." Spot tried to wrench the Jet leader off him, but Jack stayed put, wrapping his arms around the other boy's waist. "Jack, how many beers have you had?"

Jack closed his eyes, smiling serenely. "Nine," he whispered. 

Spot swore loudly.

It was a typical evening in the Opium Den, full of almost drunk (or, in the case of Jack Kelly, completely drunk) teenage boys, Shakespeare novels, and cigarette smoke. At the moment Specs was reading from "Much Ado About Nothing", with occasional help from Dutchy when the scene required passionate sobbing, odd background bird calls, or an incredibly seductive pole-dance. Needless to say, the blond boy's talents had not been of much help as of yet.

Just then the door opened and in staggered Kid Blink, looking oddly blank and not meeting anyone's eyes. He sat down on the floor by Swifty's legs and pulled his knees up to his chest, apparently deeply immersed in thought. "Hey, you made it," said Spot. "At last, someone who hasn't been affected by alcohol yet. Here, Blink, get this idiot off my chest."

Blink closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the bench. He looked perfectly miserable.

Spot lifted an eyebrow delicately. "On the other hand, _have_ you been drinkin', Blink? You seem kinda high or somethin'..."

"We got hiiiiiigh on travel, and we got druuuuuuuuunk on alcohol... and on looooooooove, the strongest poison and medicine of aaaaaaaall!" sang Dutchy, taking another swig of his beer.

Specs looked up from his book. "Unless I'm very much mistaken," he said, putting in a bookmark and closing the book, "that was a Joni Mitchell song. I had no idea you listened to her, Dutchy."

"My mom likes to sing 'The Last Time I Saw Richard'," said Swifty with a slight shudder.

Dutchy turned rather pink and hid behind his beer. "Can we continue reading?" he said meekly. "I want to hear what happens next..."

"Can we read 'Romeo and Juliet'?" asked Mush. "I'm sick of tryin' to figure out what the hell 'Much Ado About Nothing' is about."

"Sure-- if I can find it." Specs turned, grimacing, to the enormous stack of Shakespeare plays piled beside him. "This could take a few minutes."

"IS ANYONE GONNA FUCKING TAKE KELLY OFF ME?" Spot yelled from under Jack, but nobody was listening to him. Dutchy was showing Swifty the different birdcalls he could do, Mush was slipping his cigarette butt under the cushion with a furtive glance at Swifty, and Blink was remaining motionless, his face impassive. He felt as though he had betrayed his gang by falling in love with Bumlets, and he didn't like the feeling at all.

"AHA!" Specs yelled. "I have located the book!"

"Hooray," said Spot apathetically, trying to wiggle out from under Jack's body. "I'm still being slowly suffocated by a sleeping lump who, might I add, is A FRIGGIN' FOOT TALLER THAN ME! Blink, if you don't want to lose a testicle, GET YOUR ASS OVER HERE AND HELP ME!"

Blink didn't move.

"Maybe he wants to lose a testicle," said Swifty with a shrug.

"Is he dead?" said Specs.

"No, he's breathing," Dutchy reassured him as he put his head against Blink's chest. "BLIIINKYYY, WAKE UUUUUP! Mush, was he like this at work?"

Mush closed his eyes. "No," he said.

Specs watched him, eyebrow raised. "I vote we read 'Romeo and Juliet' now and leave Blink alone. All in favor, say 'aye'."

"Aye," said everyone but Blink and Jack, so Specs cracked open the book and began to read aloud.

"So when we last stopped, we were at Scene 11, am I right? Okay, so Capulet says, 'But Montague is bound as well as I in penalty alike; and 'tis not hard, I think, for men as old as we to keep the peace.' And Paris answers, 'Of honorable reckoning are you both...'"

Blink wasn't listening. He looked at Mush, who was staring down at his hands, and wondered if the other boy had requested this story for a specific reason. Maybe he was trying to make a point. The storyline was, after all, quite similar to Blink and Bumlets' situation-- two lovers from separate groups who fell in love despite the fact that it was forbidden. Blink only hoped the pair of them were not going to end up killing themselves.

"...And too soon marr'd are those so early made. The earth hath swallow'd all my hopes but she, she is the hopeful lady of my earth; but woo her, gentle Paris, get her heart, for my will to consent is but a part...'"

"This is too fucking much," Blink murmured, then louder: "This is too fucking much."

Specs stopped and looked at him, eyes wide with concern. "W-what?" he asked.

"Blink, is everythin' all right?" asked Swifty.

But the blond boy had already gotten up and crossed the room, unsure of his destination but determined to leave. He stopped with his hand on the doorknob, running his tongue across his teeth, and then turned and sank to his knees. "Here you go," he said quietly, and he gently pulled Jack's sleeping form off of Spot's chest. "Sorry." And he was gone.

There was silence for a minute in the Opium Den, and Specs dropped the Shakespeare novel onto the floor with a dull thud. "What the fuck was _that_ about?" said Spot softly, rubbing his chest.

Nobody answered him.

.o.

Make of our lives one life,  
Day after day, one life...  
Now it begins, now we start  
One hand, one heart—  
Even death won't part us now!

-"One Hand, One Heart" - West Side Story

.o.

Author's Note: I rewrote this chapter twice, and I must say I'm very sick of it. Ah well. It's necessary for the plot, so I have to keep it. Anyway, much love for Nakaia Aiden-Sun, Repeat, Glitz Kelly, Sapphy, Dakki, Tessie26, Braids21, Eagle Higgins-Conlon, Dreamer101 and Scout73 for reviewing, and an extra hug for Dakki-- RED SOX FANS UNITE!! YEE-HAW! Please leave a review!

-Saturday


	5. Chapter Five

Author's Note: Rumble rumble rumble!! Ohh, I'm so excited! :-D

Disclaimer: I own West, Tempest, Mouse, Rims, and Leya, the newsies belong to Disney, and everything else belongs to the musical "West Side Story".

.o.

****

East Side Story - Chapter V.

.o.

We're gonna hand 'em a surprise

Tonight.

We're gonna cut 'em down to size

Tonight.

We said, "O.K., no rumpus,

No tricks"—

But just in case they jump us,

We're ready to mix

Tonight!

We're gonna rock it tonight,

We're gonna jazz it up and have us a ball...

They're gonna get it tonight;

The more they turn it on, the harder they'll fall!

Well, they began it—

Well, they began it—

And we're the ones to stop 'em once and for all,

Tonight!

"Tonight" - West Side Story

.o.

"Sarah doesn't want me to rumble," said Jack.

Spot pulled himself onto Jack's bathroom sink and squeezed out the last of the toothpaste onto his toothbrush. "So?" he said indifferently, beginning to brush his teeth. He had a sort of fixation with oral hygiene, insisting on brushing after every meal despite the other Jets' teasing comments. He leaned over and spat a mixture of toothpaste and saliva into the sink. "What, is she worried you're gonna get killed or somethin'?"

"Yeah." Jack pulled a loose t-shirt on over his head. "She's completely paranoid. Says I should quit the gang before I get shot in the head by one o' them damn Ricans."

"Shoulda thought o' that before she dated the leader of the Jets, eh?" said Spot, laughing.

"Yeah..." said Jack again, and he avoided Spot's gaze and busied himself in rummaging around in one of his drawers.

Spot noticed the reluctant look on his friend's face, and his gray eyes softened slightly. "Of course, you're not _going_ to get shot in the head," he said quickly. "It's no weapons, remember? Bare knuckles and all that good stuff." He stuck his toothbrush back into his mouth.

"You've got very nice teeth," Jack remarked, finally looking up. "I don't understand how you can smoke and love your teeth so much; one of 'em is gonna have to go, eh?"

Spot looked away. "You're not gonna get killed, Cowboy," he said in an uncharacteristically soft voice. "It's man to man. Méndez was real clear about that, yeah? Anyway, even if it _was_ a knife-fight or somethin', those Puerto Ricans're too damn slow to do any real harm."

"Hey Spot?"

"Hmm?"

"Are you nervous?"

This caught Spot by surprise. He stopped, toothbrush in hand, and to Jack's intense surprise his beautiful face fell and his shoulders slumped slightly. But only for a minute. Before there was time for his body language to sink in, he had regained composure and rinsed off his toothbrush. "Nah, it's just a stupid rumble and we're gonna win," he said, and his cocky grin reappeared on his face. "Are _you_ nervous?"

"No, course not," said Jack, waving a hand dismissively. "C'mon, we're gonna be late. You ready?"

"Yep." Spot pulled on his customary gray cabbie hat and dropped his toothbrush into the sink with a grin. "I'll come back for this later," he said to Jack, and he left the apartment, singing a song about dancing pineapples.

Jack paused, about to follow his friend, and a thought struck him. Glancing furtively at the front door which Spot had left swinging, he pulled open one of the dresser drawers and lifted out a small knife. "Just in case," he murmured, and he folded it up and slid it into the back pocket of his blue jeans.

"Hey, Cowboy, ya comin'?" Spot yelled from downstairs.

"Hang on, Spot," Jack called back, and he quickly closed the drawer and hurried out of the apartment, feeling considerably safer. He began to hum Spot's dancing pineapple song.

.o.

The dim area under the highway was hot and muggy, the bright gleam of the headlights of passing cars flashing on and off through the mesh wire fence on the side. Blink was to be congratulated on his choice of locations for the rumble; even if Krupke _did_ suspect anything, it would be hours before he would think to check under the highway.

Bumlets could not remember ever being more nervous in his entire life. As he and the Sharks entered the space, he could almost see the ground splattered with blood-- American and Puerto Rican blood, too much to be spilled at such a young age. Then the premonition left him, and he found himself staring at Itey.

"It's not gonna be plain skin, is it?" Bumlets whispered.

Itey smiled sadly and ran a hand through his hair. "West brought a knife," he said. "So did Tempest, and Mouse, and I think Racetrack, too. Rims doesn't need metal to inflict pain."

"Did you?"

"What?"

"Bring a knife."

Itey touched his back pocket, where there was a significant bulge. He avoided his friend's gaze. "Well, didn't you? Look, none of us trust the Jets. We just want to make sure that if Kelly pulls out a knife, we'll have somethin' to fight back with."

Bumlets didn't say anything. It had never occurred to him to bring a knife-- West and Jack had agreed on no weapons, so he had trusted that there would be no weapons. He licked his lips and looked out across the makeshift battleground to where the Jets were now entering, looking grim but determined. He spotted Blink, and it occurred to him that the sandy-haired boy had lost his left eye in a knife fight when he was seventeen. _Man-- he must be more nervous than I am._

Blink caught the other boy's eye and gave him a faint smile, which Bumlets returned. He noticed an expression on the blond's face that could mean only one thing: they had to stop the rumble.

West stepped forward, alive and full of adrenaline and a slight cockiness. "Glad you could make it," he said with a smirk.

"Right back atcha, Méndez." Jack held out his hand to the other boy so that it was gloved in the flashing light from the headlights. "Shall we begin?"

West ignored the hand. "Sure."

"Ain't you gonna shake? Rumble tradition, y'see," said Jack, annoyed. "Or are you too goddamn--"

"Really messed up country, America is," said West mildly. "I hate you more than anyone I've ever had the pleasure of meeting, and I know you had me just the same. Why the hell should we bother shakin' hands? I ain't gonna pretend to be well-mannered during a rumble, all right?"

Jack looked at him for a minute, eyebrows raised, then dropped his hand. "You're a real gentleman, Méndez."

"Just tryin' to keep things simple, Cowboy."

"Right." Jack's dark eyes traveled over the Shark's lean bodies, apparently sizing them up. "Well, formalities aside, let's get this thing done. My girlfriend'll be pissed if I'm out too late."

West smiled and muttered something nearly unrepeatable, at which Jack snapped back the most offensive racial slur he could think of, and the two boys lunged at each other. "Shit," Bumlets muttered as the rest of the teenagers began to cheer and shout, and he pushed his way through the crowd and forced himself between the two leaders.

"What is it, Bumlets?" said West, astonished, fist still raised.

"You've got to stop," said Bumlets, his voice shaking slightly.

There was silence for a minute, everyone staring at Bumlets. Then Jack began to laugh. "What's this all about, prettyboy? Gettin' cold feet at the last minute? Listen, if you can't fight your own fights--"

"No, it isn't like that," Bumlets cried. "I--"

A Jet made a catcall, and someone yelled, "Soak 'im, Cowboy!" A smile spread across Jack's face. "Well, Lucero, if you ain't chicken, prove it. C'mon, take a punch." He opened his arms wide, his expression confident and mocking.

"Bumlets, don't," said West immediately.

"Yeah, listen to your friend Méndez."

"I don't want to fight you," said Bumlets.

"Course you don't," said Jack, smirking.

"Get 'im, Bumlets!" Mouse shouted.

"Yeah, come get me, Bumlets," Jack chuckled. "I'll take on prettyboy as a warm-up, how's that? C'mon, prettyboy."

"You don't understand," said Bumlets, trying not to panic.

"Watcha say? Afraid, gutless?" Jack crowed. "Not so tough anymore, eh?"

"Soak 'im!" Race yelled.

"Scared?" said Jack, reaching up to pinch Bumlets' cheek.

"Leave me alone--"

"Kill 'im, Jack!" Spot yelled.

"Dontcha wanna fight, prettyboy?"

"BUMLETS," said West loudly.

"I don't want to fucking fight you," Bumlets spat.

"He's chicken!"

"Gutless!"

"Kill 'im, Jack!"

"Yeah, soak 'im!"

"C'mon, Lucero, scared?"

"I ain't scared, but I don't--"

"BUMLETS, DON'T!"

"Get 'im, Bumlets, make 'im wish he--"

"I don't wanna fight y--"

"BUMLETS, JUST--"

"C'MON, YOU YELLOW-BELLIED BAST--"

Jack never finished his sentence. West pushed Bumlets out of the way and slammed his first as hard as he could into the side of Jack's face, knocking him backwards. "You're an asshole, Kelly," he laughed, and he reached into his back pocket.

"No, West--" Bumlets choked. "Aw, god_dam_mit, no!"

But Jack was already staggering forward, spitting a mouthful of blood onto the pavement and reaching into his pocket, too. Before anyone had time to register what was happening, the two gang leaders were standing poised with gleaming knives held tight in their hands. Jack grinned. "I thought you said no weapons, Méndez," he said softly.

"I did," West answered, biting his lip-- careful, careful.

They began to slowly circle each other, knives flashing in the light from the moving cars. Bumlets glanced at Blink, who looked ready to throw up, but his eyes snapped back to the two leaders when Jack sprung forward. "Watch it!" Tempest shouted. West didn't need him; his reflexes were incredible, and he easily dodged the blade and leapt, catlike, around behind Jack.

The fight seemed to drag on for eternity. The two gangs blended together and separated and blended again, and Tempest even threw a punch at Dutchy when he made a nasty remark about West. Blink pressed himself against Bumlets' shoulder and closed his eye every so often, when all became too much for him to watch. Bumlets didn't feel so great himself.

"C'mon, Méndez, is that all ya got?" Jack was saying scornfully. "You're no better than Lucero, I'll tell ya that."

"Shut your trap, Cowboy," said West calmly, darting forward.

Jack ducked and laughed. "You Ricans should go back where you fuckin' came from," he said. "Here's no place for you lightweights."

"Don't be thick, they ain't wanted anywhere," Spot chuckled.

"Shut the fuck up, Conlon," Racetrack snapped.

"Make me."

So Racetrack decked him. Pretty son the pair of them were immersed in quite an intense fistfight, but nobody was paying them any attention. In a burst of energy, Jack had lunged forward and pinned West against the wall, knife tip against his tightened stomach.

Silence.

West looked down at the blade and then back up at Jack, mildly startled. "You got me, Kelly," he said.

"I got you, Méndez," said Jack, smiling pleasantly.

"And now you're gonna kill me."

A look of grim determination set in Jack's eyes. "And now I'm gonna kill you," he said.

"Jack, don't!" Blink yelled, eye wide.

Jack paused and looked back at Blink, his expression unreadable. His eyes traveled over the huge crowd of boys, none of them older than twenty, and then he looked back at West. "I don't want your sympathy," said the Puerto Rican darkly. "If you're gonna kill me, kill me. Just get it done, all right?"

"You ain't gettin' my sympathy," said Jack softly, his face very close to West's. "I'm gonna kill you and all your little Spic friends if it's the last thing I do, you Rican bastard."

West was not the type of person who was easily angered; he was usually very calm and laid-back, never losing control. But when it came to protected the ones he loved, he became a different person entirely. "Don't you dare talk like that, you son of a bitch," he whispered, and he wrenched Jack's hands off him and plunged his knife as far as it would go into the other boy's stomach.

Jack froze, eyes wide and mouth open in an expression of slight surprise. Then he looked slowly down at the blood beginning to pool at his feet, gushing from the wound in his lower stomach, and he began to laugh. Softly at first, and then louder, until the sound of his laughter was echoing dully throughout the silent area. "Spot!" he yelled, and he stopped laughing. "Where's Spot?"

"Right here, Cowboy." Spot looked strangely timid, his face pale and bloody from his fistfight, and the aura he gave out was a ghost of the usual confidence he radiated.

Jack began to fall, and Spot helped him down easily. "Sarah was right," Jack whispered, weakening slightly. "Tell 'er I'm sorry."

"Don't be s--"

"You lied to me, Conlon," Jack interrupted, but he didn't look upset or angry. "You said I wouldn't die."

Spot cracked the knuckles on his left hand and stared at the ground, thinking hard, eyes dull. It was a long time before he spoke again. "I didn't think you were gonna die, Cowboy," he said, his voice oddly gentle.

"I figured you didn't," Jack laughed, and he died.

Spot chuckled too, but it was a dull, lifeless sound. "Course I didn't realize you were gonna die," he said, his voice sounding odd. "Course, Cowboy. If I knew you were gonna die, I woulda fought Méndez 'stead o' you." He reached forward and jerkily straightened Jack's bandana, before standing up to face the rest of the boys. "He's dead."

"Cowboy?" Swifty choked out.

"What the hell is this?" another Jet yelled angrily.

"He ain't DEAD, he was talking to you just a few seconds ago!"

"MÉNDEZ FRICKIN' _KILLED_ HIM??"

"No," Bumlets heard Blink whisper. The blond boy pushed his way forward to where Jack's body lay, but his eyes were on Spot's-- as though he couldn't bear to look at the figure on the ground. Several other Jets were slowly emerging from the crowd and Mush was retching against the fence, supported by Specs. "You're lying, Spot," said Blink shakily.

Spot didn't answer. He bent down and carefully slid the dagger out of Jack's stomach, ignoring the blood the soaked his hands.

"You're lying."

"I ain't lyin', Blink, he's dead." Spot stood up. "That Puerto Rican bastard stabbed him in the fuckin' stomach and killed him. Get a grip." But there was a new quality to his voice now, as though he were fighting back extreme emotions.

Blink seemed unable to accept the facts. He looked at Jack's body, still gently surging blood, and then up at Spot, and over at West. The Puerto Rican boy's face was mask-like, raised to the sky, and his arms hung limply at his sides. _That boy, _Blink realized, _just murdered Jack Kelly._

And he threw himself at West.

"BLINK!" Spot yelled, grabbing him across the chest. "What the fuck do ya think you're _doin'_? Have you fucking lost your mind?"

"Have _you_?" Blink snapped.

"Just--"

"I don't--"

"Blink, calm--"

Blink snatched the bloody knife from Spot's loose grip, dodged the other boy's arms, and ran at West. To his surprise, the dark boy did nothing to stop him from pushing the bloodstained blade into his chest. On the contrary, he looked at Kid link with an expression of what could have been relief as the cold metal slid between his ribs.

"NO!" Tempest yelled, breaking forward.

West looked up, and his brother stopped. They stood there, staring at each other for what seemed to be an eternity, both pairs of dark eyes blank and empty. Finally, West spoke.

"This wasn't how it was supposed to end up-- no weapons, that's what we agreed," he coughed, crumpling. Unlike Spot, Blink made no efforts to help the wounded teenager down.

"Don't die," said Tempest.

West shrugged in what would have been an off-handed fashion, but the simple movement was cramped by pain. "I killed Cowboy, and now I'm doin' my part. S'only fair." He grinned and closed his eyes. "I'll see ya in hell, boys," he whispered.

That was it. The lean, dark chest stopped rising and falling, the beautiful face tilted to one side, and he was dead. Out like a light. Gone.

Blink staggered backwards, staring at his hands. _Killer killer killer killer killer killer killer killer killer killer,_ he just killed a nineteen year old boy, he just stabbed him in the chest, _killer killer killer_--

Suddenly, Mouse darted forward and signaled everyone to shut the hell up, to listen. They froze.

Quiet now, but growing steadily louder, was the sound of police sirens in the distance. Krupke had thought to check the highway. Shit.

The boys scattered, shouting to their gang members, fleeing for the escape routes, but two people stayed where they were. Kid Blink sank to his knees besides West's body, hands trembling out in front of him-- _killer killer killer killer killer_-- and Tempest had yet to move from his standing spot about ten feet away. Neither of them took any notice of the police sirens in the background... or perhaps they simply couldn't hear it.

A figure darted out of the shadows. Bumlets. "C'mon, guys, you're gonna get caught," he hissed, pulling at Tempest's shoulder. The Puerto Rican didn't move, his eyes still fixed uncomprehendingly on the body of his older brother.

Blink, however, looked up at the sound of Bumlets' voice. The dark boy saw him kneeling there in the pool of Jack and West's blood, more of the rich, dark liquid staining his hands, and wanted nothing more than to hold him, to _help _him somehow. "Blink," he whispered. The police cars were almost upon them now, sirens screaming and wailing and slicing through the hot night air. "Blink, we gotta get outta here."

"BUMLETS!" Racetrack yelled from an escape route by the fence. "DON'T BOTHER WITH THE KILLER, JUST--"

"SHUT UP, RACE!" Bumlets shouted. He turned back to Blink, grabbed his upper arm, and pulled him to his feet. "It's okay," he murmured. "We just gotta get the hell outta here. TEMPEST!"

Tempest ignored him, ignored the world, and continued to look blankly at West's bloodstained body. A searchlight pierced the steamy air, and Bumlets and Blink ducked. "Shit," Bumlets muttered. "Shit shit shit." With one last fleeting glance at Tempest, he tightened his grip on Blink's arm and dragged him into the safety of the shadows.

The searchlight eventually shone on Tempest, outlining his body and throwing an elongated shadow across the ground, and two policemen climbed out of their car and walked toward him. "There's no need to run, Méndez; we see ya," said the fatter policeman, whom they all recognized to be Officer Krupke.

Tempest looked slowly up, his face impassive. Krupke took no notice of his obvious state of shock and continued briskly, "Now tell me, you lyin' Rican, was there a rumble tonight under the highway?"

Tempest looked back at West's body. "That's my brother," he said. His voice was hoarse.

"What was that, Méndez?"

"Dead."

The two policemen looked at each other, nonplussed, and then Krupke shone the flashlight down at Tempest's feet. "Holy cow-- Kelly?" he gasped, squatting down to get a better look. "Méndez?" He turned to Tempest. "You did this?"

"I as good as did it," said Tempest dully.

The other policeman stepped forward. "We'll have to take 'im, Krupke," he said. "Looks like he went on a killin' spree or somethin'. Is he still armed?"

"Hand over your weapons," said Krupke to Tempest, and Tempest did. "All right, ya hoodlum, get into the car. You've really done it this time-- killin' your own brother? Damn, I thought..."

Blink was struggling against Bumlets' arms, trying to get into the open. "It wasn't him, it was me, it ain't fair--"

Tempest stopped halfway to the car, two policemen holding his arms. "RIMS!" he shouted. Bumlets saw the great lump stir in the shadows, listening. "KILL 'IM FOR ME, ALL RIGHT, RIMS? KILL 'IM FOR WEST--" and the policemen dragged him away, apparently convinced that the boy had lost his mind.

It didn't take a genius to figure out whom he meant for Rims to kill.

"Fuck," Bumlets muttered, and he pulled Blink to his feet. "C'mon, follow me-- I'm takin' you to my place. Jesus Christ, I wouldn't be surprised if they burn down your apartment..."

"My dog," Blink whispered, but Bumlets cut him off with a hurried, "Come _on_, before they shoot you," and the pair of them disappeared into the shadows.

.o.

The instant they were inside, Bumlets locked the door to his apartment and kissed Blink "I killed 'im," Blink whispered shakily, crushing his face into Bumlets' neck. Bumlets wrapped his arms around him. "I killed 'im I killed 'im I--"

"Shut up," Bumlets breathed, his voice thick with emotion.

"I'm sorry."

"You killed West."

"I know."

"He killed Jack."

"I loved Jack."

"Tempest's gone."

"Jack saved my life last year."

"When you lost your eye."

"I owe 'im."

"I was there."

"So I killed West."

"Don't."

Blink lifted his hands and stared at them unseeingly. "I feel like Lady MacBeth," he said hollowly. "'Out out, damn spots', y'know?"

"We'll wash the blood off," said Bumlets.

"I should turn myself in, get Tempest out."

"No."

Blink looked at him, then back at his hands. "I'll do whatever you want me to do," he said.

"Then stay with me."

"I will." And he crumpled against the wall, his shoulders shaking but his face dry. "Bumlets, I--"

There was a loud knocking sound at the door. "Dominic?" Anita cried. "Dominic, what happened? Anthony is sitting on the stairs with his face in his hands, he won't explain-- Why is your door locked?"

"Where is Mateo?" came Leya's anxious voice, and Bumlets knew she meant West.

"Dominic, are you there?"

He stood up. "Yeah, hold on, girls," he yelled. "Blink, you gotta get out of here-- The window, climb out the window or somethin'."

"I'm not scared," said Blink, eyes closed.

"Well I fucking am, now get out!"

"Dominic, who are you talking to?" Anita called.

"Nobody; hang on!" He turned to Blink. "Listen-- I love you, all right? I need you to get out of here now, because if they see you and scream or somethin', Rims'll come and kill you."

"LET US IN, GOD _DAMMIT_!" Leya screamed, and Maria yelped and squealed something about getting the bible.

Blink stood up and kissed Bumlets. "When can I see you again?" he whispered, as the other boy pushed him toward the window.

"Tonight, at one," Blink whispered. "Go to Paul Shanley's place, I'll meet you out back."

"I love you."

Bumlets grinned and shoved him out onto the windowsill. "I know, now get out!" He watched until the other boy was out of sight, trying to swallow the huge lump that had somehow lodged itself in his throat.

"Dominic?" The doorknob rattled. The two girls' voices were becoming high-pitched and hysterical. Bumlets only hoped they wouldn't break down and cry-- if there was anything he couldn't handle, it was a couple of crying girls.

He unlocked the door and threw it open, dashing past the girls and hurrying down the stairs. Race was curled up against the wall, rocking back and fourth, Itey was staring at him blankly, and Mouse was pacing the steps feverishly. Where was Rims?

"Racetrack," said Bumlets softly, touching his shoulder.

"I'll kill 'im," Race answered. He was trembling, his face pale and bruised from the rumble, but his hands were steady.

"Cool it, Race," said Bumlets gently.

"I'LL FUCKING KILL 'IM FOR FUCKING KILLING WES--"

"RACETRACK!" Bumlets slapped him and gripped his shoulders tightly, and Mouse stopped pacing.

Racetrack glared at Bumlets for a minute, his body tense, and then he broke down and leaned forward against the other boy's shoulder. "What the fuck happened?" he said softly, and Bumlets could feel him shudder under his arms.

"Listen to me." Bumlets closed his eyes for a second, trying to figure out how to word what he wanted to say. "You gotta stay... cool, all right? If you show how hurt you are, you're carvin' a hole in your chest for them to stick in a red-hot umbrella and open it-- wide."

"At this point, I'd be thankful for someone to stick an umbrella in my chest," said Itey dully.

Bumlets ignored him. "That was West's trick, wasn't it? Just stay cool, don't let 'em see you're hurt, just stay cool."

"And where's West now?" Race snapped, pulling back abruptly as though he had only just realized that he had been resting in the other boy's embrace. "Where the HELL is West when we need 'im?"

"He's dead," said Mouse softly, sinking onto the steps.

"It ain't his fault," said Itey.

"IT DAMN WELL IS," Race yelled, but they knew he didn't mean it. The entire Higgins family had always dealt with pain by anger, and it came as no surprise to any of them that Racetrack was livid.

"Easy, Racetrack. Easy." Bumlets sat down gently beside him.

Race slammed his fist into the wall. "I WANNA KILL 'IM!" he yelled, and none of them could tell who he was talking about. "I WANNA GODDAM _KILL _'IM FOR BEING SO GODDAMN _STUPID_!"

"Stay cool, Race, c'mon."

"I DON'T GIVE A _DAMN_ ABOUT STAYING COOL, YOU _SON OF A_--"

"DOMINIC LUCERO ORVANTES Y LEDESMA PAREDES, WHAT IN GOD'S NAME IS GOING ON?" Anita demanded from the top of the stairs.

They were silent for a minute, Racetrack's knuckles bleeding profusely and Mouse's breathing loud and jagged. Then Bumlets looked at Itey and leaned back wearily, closing his eyes. "You explain," he said.

.o.

Boy, boy, crazy boy—

Get cool, boy!

Got a rocket in your pocket—

Keep coolly cool, boy!

Don't get hot,

'Cause, man, you got

Some high times ahead...

Take it slow and, Daddy-o,

You can live it up and die in bed!

Boy, boy, crazy boy—

Stay loose, boy!

Breeze it, buzz it, easy does it—

Turn off the juice, boy!

Go man, go,

But not like a yoyo

School boy—

Just play it cool, boy—

Real cool!

Easy, Action.

Easy.

-"Cool", West Side Story

.o.

Author's Note: See that? That's my favorite song in the whole movie. :-D

Anyway.

I can't believe I did that. I can't believe I killed off Jack and West. ((pauses)) That was fun. ;-) I apologize to all Jack fans, and any West fans-- if they do, indeed, exist. (Hey, _I _liked him-- but then again, I created him, too.) Thanks to singin'-newsies-goil, Glitz Kelly, Eagle Higgins-Conlon, Braids21, Sapphy, Dakki, Erin Go Bragh, and Nakai-Aiden Sun for reviewing, I love you more than life itself! Now leave a review and I'll love you even more-- only one chapter to go!

-Saturday


	6. Chapter Six

**Author's Note: **I watched "West Side Story" this morning for the first time since I started writing this fic, and I broke down and cried hysterically when Riff and Bernardo died. (Actually, I kind of yelped when Riff was stabbed, but I really started to cry when Bernardo crumpled to the ground with his hand on his stomach and his forehead against the pavement... Ahh, I'm gonna cry again, CAN'T THINK ABOUT IT!!) The weird thing was, I barely noticed when Tony got shot. I guess I just didn't like him that much, lol...

**Disclaimer: **The newsies belong to Disney, any song lyrics inserted into the actual text belong to Patty Griffin, I own Leya, Mouse, Rims, Mr. Shanley, and Tempest, and I used to own West. ((sniffs)) Everything else belongs to the musical "West Side Story", which is not to be watched without a large box of tissues close at hand.

.o.

**East Side Story – Chapter VI.**

.o.

****

**When love comes so strong,**

**There is no**** right or wrong...**

**The love is your life!**

**-"I Have A Love", West Side Story**

.o.

Anita was yelling at Bumlets, but he couldn't hear her over Leya's anguished cries, Itey's consoling murmurs, and the occasional angry yell from Racetrack in the background. The door was closed, but they were still managing to drown her out. Who knew pain could be so loud?

Anita's hair was coming out of the tight knot, and her face was flushing prettily from all the stress she was going through. Bumlets watched, wide-eyed, as she cried a little, threw a book across the room, and yelled some more, gesticulating wildly with her hands, before flinging herself onto his lap and burying her face into his neck. He patted her head awkwardly as she sobbed.

"But forget all that," she sniffed when she had regained coherency. "I don't want you to blame yourself, Dominic."

"...Okay."

She sniffed again and put her hand on the back of his neck. "What I really wanted to talk to you about is a bit unrelated," she said seriously. "I don't think you've been completely honest with me, and I don't appreciate that at all."

"Anita, what the h—"

"I know about your Jet friend."

He blinked and his mouth went rather dry. She couldn't — she didn't mean _Blink_— He looked up at her, mouth slightly open, and said the only thing he could think to say: "How?"

She chuckled dryly and stood up. "I'm not as stupid as you think I am," she said as she pulled the hair elastic from her dark hair. When Bumlets didn't answer, she sighed and placed the elastic between her teeth. Bumlets was very impressed that she was able to talk through the elastic _and _do her hair at the same time. "It didn't take a genius to figure out. First of all I noticed that you sort of stopped bashing the Jets, then I heard you talking through the door, and I noticed you didn't seem to be as upset as everyone else about that boy stabbing West—"

"That is _not _true!" Bumlets cried, but Anita held up a hand.

"I'm not finished," she said. "You also went out to visit him a fair few times, and you smell like him."

Bumlets raised an eyebrow. "I _smell _like him?" he repeated.

"Well, I mean—" She pulled back her hair and looked at him. "You know how Anthony has that thing about touch? He just remembers how things and people feel, right?"

"He does?"

"Yes. And my thing is smell. I met Kid Wink or whatever one time, and I remember him smelling like rainwater and something real tangy... Anyway, one day you sort of started smelling like him too."

Bumlets stared at Anita, who smiled sheepishly and sat down again in a different chair. He had had no idea she was so logical, so observant — he had always thought of her as just a dumb broad with a fetish for stubble. She suddenly looked a great deal prettier than before.

"I hope I haven't offended you at all," she said after a moment.

"No, I—"

"I'm not trying to say that you had a sort of — special relationship with this guy," she went on feverishly and stood up again. "As more than a friend, I mean. Because I know you're not like that, not — well—" She stopped, flustered, and looked at him. "Are you?"

But Bumlets was spared answering that question by a loud knocking at the door of his apartment. "Lucero!" came a rich voice, a voice full of years of coffee and stress and yelling at teenage boys. "Open up, it's Officer Krupke here. I'd like to ask you a few questions, yeah?"

"Yeah, hold on, Officer," Bumlets called, and he hurried to open the door.

Krupke was looking just as beefy and red-faced as ever before, if not slightly more so as a result of the night's events, but he smiled slyly when he saw Anita. "Entertainin' the ladies, eh? Honestly, Lucero. I mean, I _know_ you Ricans are uncivilized, but have some decency! A gang member — your leader, am I right? — he got stabbed only an hour ago, and already you're—"

"How can I help you, Officer?" asked Bumlets wearily, closing his eyes.

"Do you mind steppin' outside for a minute?"

"Not at all, sir." He glanced at the clock and saw that it was five minutes to one. Shit. "Excuse me," he said.

Krupke rolled his eyes and exhaled loudly, but Bumlets ignored him and turned to Anita. "Listen, I need you to do me a favor."

"Anything," she said at once.

"You know Paul Shanley's place?" He glanced at Krupke, who was listening intently, and lowered his voice. "Could you go there and tell Blink I won't be able to meet 'im till, say... One-thirty? He should be there, but if he's not you could check out back."

Anita's eyes widened and she whispered, "Do you think it's wise?"

"What?"

"Tadeo — Rims — whatever his name is — he has a gun," she hissed. "He's going to shoot this Jet the next time he lays eyes on him, and you _don't want to be there when that happens!_"

"I don't—"

"A-_hem_," said Krupke loudly.

Bumlets whipped around. "Sorry about that, sir. Just needed Anita here to buy me some Aspirin; I'm clean out, and I've got a terrible headache."

Anita nodded fervently and scurried away to get her shawl, and Krupke sighed and beckoned Bumlets out of the apartment. Race, Itey, Leya, Rosalia, Mouse, Rims, and the rest of the boys were all standing there, ashen-faced and glaring at Krupke. He ignored them and reached into his pocket, drawing out a small slip of paper. "Leandro Hernan y Ocampo Tomas Méndez," he read.

"Tempest," said Mouse with a growl.

"Suspected of stabbing two young men while under the highway at approximately 12:30 PM, Pacific Standard Time." He put the paper back into his pocket and glared around at them. "What do you boys know about this?" he demanded.

No one moved. They just hung back against the wall, hands in their pockets— cool.

"Absolutely nothing," said Racetrack finally. "Sir."

.o.

It was really quite incredible how hard Spot was throwing the darts at the dartboard. The rest of the Jets watched in alarm, flinching every so often in fear of the entire board falling off the wall. Finally, Specs gently took hold of the other boy's wrist before he could fling another dart at the board. "Spot," he said softly, "Mr. Shanley's gonna be real pissed if you kill his dartboard."

Spot lifted an eyebrow delicately. "Do I look like I care?"

Specs let go of his wrist very quickly indeed.

"Has anyone told Sarah about... Jack?" asked Must as Spot resumed his violent game.

"Does anyone _want _to?" Dutchy leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. "Honestly, I think she would strangle all of us with her bare hands if she—"

"I still can't believe it," said Swifty. "That he's dead. I keep expectin' him to come through the door and yell 'APRIL FOOLS!' or somethin'."

There was silence for a minute, and Mush bent down in the pretense of getting himself a glass of water so that they couldn't see his face. Then Spot flung another dart at the board and said hollowly, "It's not April, Swift."

For what was possibly the twentieth time that month, Paul Shanley had allowed the boys to take over the restaurant on account that they didn't break anything. Dutchy suspected that the man had been in a gang of some sort in the days of his youth, for he seemed to have an unusual amount of patience with the Jets. Hard on the outside, but soft on the inside, Dutchy said. Like a burrito.

"Where's Blink?" asked Specs.

"Outside," said Mush, taking out a cigarette to calm his nerves.

Spot threw another dart at the board. _Thwock._

"Why's he out there?"

"Dunno, he didn't say."

"Meditatin'?"

"Shut up, Dutchy."

_Thwock._

"He killed Méndez."

"The blood on his hands made 'im kinda crazy, y'know?"

"Méndez killed Cowboy."

"Fucking _bastard_—"

"Excuse me, boys, may I please speak to Kid Blink Parker?"

They all looked up, slightly startled by the slender figure in the doorway. Puerto Rican, no doubt, and beautiful too. Familiar. Her inquiry was met by icy glares and cold silence, until someone turned on the radio in the corner so that an ironically cheerful mambo began to play softly in the background. Spot threw another dart. _Thwock._

Swifty flicked open his lighter. "He ain't here," he said acidly.

"Well then may I speak to whoever owns this restaurant?" Anita asked calmly.

"He ain't here, either," said Dutchy. Dancing class manners. "But don't worry, señorita, you can hang with us." He smiled mockingly and offered her his hand, making the other boys snicker appreciatively.

Anita ignored him and walked up to the front of the bar, obviously looking for Shanley or Blink or someone, _anyone _who wasn't half-maddened by grief and longing for revenge. She bit her lip.

"Whatcha doin', sweetheart?" Spot asked a few feet away. He closed one eye and took aim at the dartboard. "We already toldja, Shanley ain't in. Went to the bank."

"Got stuck in the slot," said Dutchy with a grin. "You know how skinny he is."

"The banks aren't open this late," said Anita softly. "I need to speak to Kid Blink."

"Say please," said Specs.

Her dark eyes narrowed. "Please," she spat.

"Non comprende," said Swifty with a derisive smile.

"Por favor," said Dutchy.

"Gracias," said Mush.

"Di nada," said Specs.

"He ain't in, señorita," said Spot loudly. _Thwock. _"Whaddaya want with 'im, eh? Maybe we gentlemen can help ya out."

"I need to deliver a message."

Spot looked up. "And whom is this message from?"

"It doesn't matter," Anita snapped.

"From Rims?"

"From your murderin' pal?"

"You got a couple o' guns hidden under that skirt, señorita?"

"I'm sure ya wanna do Blink in the way he did Méndez in."

"Heh, you'll sure as hell try."

"Of course, he might just—"

"I want to fucking _help_, you bastards!" she cried, livid. "I want to stop Rims from blowing your friend's brains out, all right?" She closed her eyes and leaned against the counter, slightly breathless, trying to regain control over herself.

Spot was smiling now, but it was a cruel, hollow smile, as though he was seeing the world in black and red. "Sure," he said softly. "Of course. The Rican wants to help us out in our troubled times. Lucero's Rican."

"Lucero's tramp, yeah?"

"Lucero's pig!"

"Spic! Rotten Spic!"

"Stop it!" Anita pleaded. "Get your hands off me—"

But the boys were excited now, angry, pulling at her shawl, her hair, her skirt, laughing, jeering. She tried to force her way out of the diner, but Swifty caught her around the chest and forced her back. She screamed.

Dutchy reached forward and grabbed her from behind, swaying to the beat, and she screamed again and slapped him. He laughed. Before she knew it, Mush had been lifted up by a few of the other boys and dropped on her, crushing her to the floor beneath a mass of sweating, laughing, yelling boys. "Spic," Spot whispered, smiling cruelly as he slid his hand up her leg. "Dirty, lyin' Sp—"

"_SPOT!_"

And as suddenly as it had started, everything stopped. The boys froze in their positions over Anita — Spot with his hand still under her skirt, Swifty with her shawl draped over his head — and turned to look at the doorway, where Blink had just entered. His body was outlined by the light from the restaurant, and at that moment he looked like an angel sent from God: a beautiful, unearthly figure with blue jeans ripped at the knees and an ugly patch over his eye. Anita, crying quietly on the floor, was rendered temporarily speechless. The angel's clear gray eyes traveled over the scene, and he exhaled softly. "Spot, what the hell is goin' on?"

There was cold silence for a minute. "A Rican," said Spot finally. And at that moment, Anita remembered that the angel was a Jet, and that he had murdered one of her best friends. The ability to speak returned to her lips, the hopeful feeling left her chest with the air as she exhaled, and like a punctured balloon her spirits fell. Bloody bastard. _Killer._

Blink moved forward, pushing boys roughly out of the way, and held a strong, brown hand to help her up. "I'm sorry," he said honestly, sadly, and it occurred to her that he might have been apologizing for more than one thing.

Anita ignored the hand and stumbled awkwardly to her feet. There were tears staining her cheeks, but she ignored them and held her head high. "I listened to Dominic," she said shakily. "I don't know why, but I did... And he almost had me convinced that you all weren't as bad as we made you out be. But now—" She laughed softly. "Now I know the truth. If one of you were lying bloody and dying in the street, I would _walk by and spit on you_." Her voice broke, and she looked away.

Stunned silence followed this statement, and Spot turned his back on her and began to viciously throw darts at the board again. Anita turned to Blink and smiled gracefully. "And you are the infamous Kid Blink, I presume?"

He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Um, yeah. Yeah, that's me."

"I was sent here to deliver a message to you, so here it is." She snatched her rose-colored shawl from Swifty, wrapped it tighter around her shoulders, and said in a monotone, "I think you should know that Dominic is never going to meet you behind the restaurant. Rims found out about you and him, pulled out his gun, and— and shot him. He's dead. Buenos noches, señor." She left, slamming the door behind her.

Blink stared after her, numb. Disbelieving. Uncomprehending. He didn't move, he didn't _blink_ — just stared. No one moved for a long time.

Dead.

_Dead? _

That word had been so overused over the course of the past hour that it barely held any meaning for him anymore. West, Jack, and now... Bumlets. But he _couldn't_ be dead; just an hour ago he had been alive and well and beautiful and comforting, cool and smooth like an autumn breeze, Blink's escape from everything. And now...

It was Mush who spoke first. "Blink," he said softly, touching the other boy's arm. "Blink, I—"

"Bumlets," Blink managed to choke out, looking up.

"What?" asked Swifty, confused.

"Oh my g— It—" Blink jerked his arm away from Mush's fingertips and looked wildly around the room. "Bumlets," he said again, and suddenly he was sprinting across the room and out the door, letting it swing close after him. In the darkness they could hear his anguished cries of "RIMS, YOU BASTARD! COME AND GET ME! COME GET ME TOO, RIMS!"

_Thwock._

Silence.

"All right, what the fuck is goin' on?" said Spot quietly, his eyes still on the dartboard.

"He's in love," said Mush after a minute, hand over his face.

"And he's insane." Dutchy pressed his nose against the window, squinting out into the darkness. "You guys, he's gonna get 'imself killed."

Spot threw the last dart and swung himself over the counter. "Well, what the hell're we waitin' for, then?" he demanded, eyes bright and slightly maniacal. "I ain't just sittin' around, waitin' for my friends to get shot. Blink's only got one eye left, and it's a good one — let's make sure he keeps it, yeah?"

Mush smiled. "Yeah."

.o.

Blink's legs were long, and with his head start even Swifty wouldn't be able to catch up with him now. He sprinted along the sidewalk toward the Puerto Rican tenement, still desperately calling Rims' name, begging the boy to kill him, too.

He tripped over something and stumbled to his knees, but he made no effort to get up. This was the only time Blink really wanted to die, and Rims wasn't coming to kill him. "Please," he begged softly, his voice cracking, but the street remained empty.

A soft sound to his right made him look up, but he closed his eye again almost immediately. The vision was too real, too beautiful, and he felt that he would lose control completely if he were to look at it. "I'm not crazy, I'm not crazy," he murmured, and he put his face in his hands, shoulders shaking. "I'm not—"

But he had to look again. There, on the other side of the basketball court, was Bumlets, a mirage or pipe dream or something, but he was exactly as Blink remembered him to be, right down to the very last details. His amber skin, his liquid-looking eyes, his incredible smile — all the same, all too real. The vision put its hands in its pockets and whistled tunelessly as it crossed the court, flicking its hair out of its eyes, and then it spotted Blink. And smiled.

And Blink knew that he was seeing no vision; this was the real deal.

"Hey, Parker! What, couldn't wait for me at the restaurant?" Bumlets called, laughing. "I mean, I know I'm sexy beyond belief, but this is _dangerous_! You're in mortal peril, remember?"

"Bumlets," said Blink, and he scrambled to his feet and began to run to the other boy, confused but overjoyed. Bumlets laughed again and ran, too. Neither of them saw the great lump in the shadows until it was too late.

What sounded like a clap of thunder filled the air, and Blink stumbled as though he had tripped. Indeed, to an outside viewer it would appear that he _had_ tripped over something in his haste to see the other boy. He staggered and fell, just feet from his destination, and everything froze.

There was a small red patch on his shoulder, and it was growing.

Bumlets stopped and grabbed the fence with both hands, wide-eyed and slightly breathless, his smile vanishing instantaneously. "Blink — Blink, what's goin' on? Are you all right?"

The blond boy lifted his head in answer and looked out over Bumlets' shoulder, staring steadily at the lump that had moved slowly into the light to reveal itself as Rims. A pistol swung gently from one massive hand.

"No," Bumlets choked. "No, that's not—" He pushed the fence as hard as he could and ran around it, falling to his knees beside the other boy. "Shit, Blink, you're hurt, you're—"

"It don't hurt that much," said Blink, shrugging, but he winced.

"Oh god..." Bumlets reached forward and put his hand gently over the wound as if he could stop the flow of blood by covering it up. The red stain grew, spreading out beneath his fingers and coloring his skin as he pulled away. "We gotta get you to a doctor before you lose too much blood," he said feverishly.

"I can't," said Blink.

"C'mon, this is urg—"

"Look, Bumlets." Blink pulled his t-shirt jerkily up over his head to reveal a bullet hole gushing blood all down his chest. "See that? He was aimin' for my heart, but he missed. Movin' targets are tricky." He smiled grimly and touched his chest slightly below the wound. "And that's my heart, right there," he said, and he looked away. "He missed, but he got close enough. Smashed a couple of arteries, by the looks of it."

Bumlets swallow with difficulty and didn't say anything. He knew Blink was right; the wound was too close to the heart for it not to be fatal. It didn't take a genius to figure that out, judging by the amount of blood pouring from the bullet hole.

"This ain't happenin'," said Bumlets. "This..."

Blink closed his eye, and the Puerto Rican gathered him up in his arms. "Don't cry," said Blink softly.

"I'm not," Bumlets lied. "Sharks... don't cry."

"You ain't like the rest of the Sharks," Blink said, and Bumlets bit his tongue to fight back a new wave of strong emotion threatening to overtake him. Blood filled his mouth, coppery and hot, but he swallowed it and closed his eyes to hold in the tears.

Blink shifted slightly in his arms, looking down at the wound again. "This ain't so bad, I guess. I had it comin', runnin' down the streets like that."

"Why—" Bumlets began, but the sound of angry voices echoing in the deserted street made him stop and look up.

"I'm tellin' ya, Higgins, if he's dead—"

"He won't be dead, ya dumbass!"

"Where's your friend, then? Rims, yeah?"

"Shut the f—"

"BLINK! KID BLINK PARK—"

Spot Conlon came sprinting around the corner, closely followed by Racetrack. The pair of them stopped immediately when they spotted the two boys crouched by the fence, and the rest of the two gangs crashed into them, yelling angrily. Then everything went quiet.

Blink didn't even look up. "Bumlets, I need you to— to take care of Edge for me," he said softly. "My dog. He poops a lot and he's allergic to cauliflower, but he likes it when you rub his tummy, and I know he'll like you..." Bumlets nodded, not trusting himself to speak. "Hey. I love you, you know," said Blink.

The Puerto Rican's breathing was ragged — perhaps more so than Blink's, so that it was difficult to tell which boy had been shot. He leaned forward and kissed the other boy gently, and when he pulled back, Kid Blink was dead.

The entire city seemed to hold its breath during that instant in which Bumlets realized what had happened. He stared in shock at the body in his arms, unable to absorb the information, his heart beating wildly. "Blink?" he said softly, hesitantly. No answer. He shook the other boy's shoulders lightly and leaned in closer, his breath catching in his throat. "Blink?"

The other boy didn't move, and Bumlets' heart seemed to stop. "Oh God, no." He pressed his hear against the bloody chest, praying to hear some sort of reassurance that Blink was still alive, but there was nothing.

Nothing.

"No. _No_ — oh God, Blink, cut it out—" His voice broke, and he shook Blink's shoulders hysterically. "You... you goddamn son of a _BITCH_," he choked, and he let out a strangled yell, a yell full of raw pain and desperation, a yell that filled the air and echoed throughout the empty street. It broke off abruptly as he buried his face in the other boy's chest, his shoulders heaving.

The other boys where whispering quietly among themselves, looking at Blink's body, closing their eyes tight, swearing softly, murmuring in Spanish.

Bumlets sat back on his heels and stared at his hands, at the dark blood staining his palms and the line of blood dripping down his forearm. He lifted his face. "_WHY?_" he yelled, and there was more agony in his voice than anyone could have imagined. "WHY NOT ME, TOO? WHAT THE HELL DID KID BLINK PARKER EVER FUCKING DO TO ANYONE?"

"He—"

"I _LOVED _HIM! I GODDAMN LOVED HIM, ALL RIGHT? IS THAT WHAT YOU WANTED?" He stood up shakily and turned to Rims, bloodstained hand outstretched, and he was cruelly satisfied to see the huge young man take an involuntary step backwards. Rims tossed him the pistol, and Bumlets caught it and examined it idly. "How does it work, Rims?" he said softly.

Rims opened his mouth and closed it again, staring at the ground. "You know how it works," he said quietly. It seemed to take a huge effort for him to make the words come out.

Bumlets smiled. "Yeah, I know how it works. You just... pull this little trigger and a life ends. Blink's life, maybe." He shrugged indifferently. "Or maybe not..." He swung out his arm suddenly and aimed the gun at the crowd, making them leap back. Someone screamed. "How many bullets, Rims?" he shouted, his voice shaking but his hands steady. "Is there enough for you—" He pointed it at Spot. "And you—" Racetrack. "And you—" Anita. "And you, Rims, so that I can kill you all and still have one _fucking_ bullet left for me?"

"Bumlets," said Itey quietly, eyes wide.

The dark boy dropped the gun and crumpled back against the fence. "Because my life's not worth anything anymore," he said, eyes closed. "It's not fucking worth anything."

There was silence. Spot covered his face with his hands and let his head hang, his breathing loud and uneven, and Racetrack put an almost comforting hand on his back. Surprisingly, Spot let it stay there.

"I want to die," said Bumlets, his voice almost a whisper. He was looking down at Blink's body, his face blank. All he could see was the boy that had been kneeling there just minutes before, the boy that had kissed him in Shanley's restaurant at closing time, the boy that had gotten drunk with him the night of the dance, the boy that had let him go the night the Jets jumped him, the boy that had laughed and sang and loved. Gone.

"You killed him, Rims." He formed his words carefully. "Why the hell couldn't you have killed me first? Because you _all _killed him—" His voice jumped half an octave as he looked up, eyes wild and shining. "Look," he said, "look at all the empty fucking spaces. You killed Jack, you killed West, Tempest's probably goin' to the electric chair if we don't bail 'im out..." He looked back down at Blink. "And this is your fault. This is _ALL YOUR FUCKING FAULT!_"

A few of the boys started tentatively toward Kid Blink's body, but Bumlets flung them away. "Don't you TOUCH HIM!" he roared, and lights began to click on in nearby apartments.

Itey reached out and touched his shoulder. "We gotta move the body, Bumlets," he whispered, his face pale. The other boy looked away jerkily and didn't say anything, and after a few moments Itey nodded to the rest of the boys. "Racetrack, Mouse—"

"We can lift one of our own kind," said Dutchy.

Bumlets laughed, and everyone stared. "You just don't get it, do you?" he said hollowly. "_This is why Blink is dead. _There are no 'kinds' — we're all the same fucking animal. WE'RE ALL THE SAME FUCKING ANIMAL! And I'll be damned before I see Kid Blink Parker carried by a bunch of Jets just because you're all too fucked up to accept that there's no real difference between dark and light skin."

No one moved for a long time.

Silence.

"Till the end of the earth, I'll search for your face... for the one who led all of our beauty to waste. Throw our hope into hell and our children to the fire, I am the one who crawled through the wire... I am the one who crawled through the wire..."

Bumlets looked over at Mouse and was startled to see her outright crying, her forearm resting on Dutchy's shoulder and silent tears pouring down her cheeks. And there, back behind her, Anita was sobbing too. And Specs, quietly. And Mush. And about half of the Sharks, and even more of the Jets. They were all crying, all realizing what they had done, all feeling it eating away at their insides. A fraction of what Bumlets was feeling right now.

"Spot, c'mon," said Race finally, shakily, and he slowly took his hand from the other boy's back. The two of them knelt beside Blink's cooling body and lifted it up, and with the help of Swifty and Specs they began to carry him away.

"Racetrack?" Bumlets called on sudden impulse, wiping his face with the back of his hand. "With all due respect, I quit the gang."

Race looked at him. "What gang?" he said.

The funeral procession made its way out of the area, leaving Bumlets standing alone by the wire fence to the basketball court. He stared dully at the ground, his face dry and his eyes blank. The only comfort he had in his state of misery was that Blink was being held by light and dark hands alike, that his death had had some sort of effect, however minor, on the two gangs. There was definitely something other than hatred radiating between Racetrack and Spot, in any case, which would have made Blink happy. It would have made him smile that brilliant smile of his that seemed to light up the entire room...

Jesus Christ.

Bumlets looked up, flicking dark bangs out of his eyes, and there was a new sort of determination in his face now. He couldn't stand here in agony all night; he had to move on, he had to start breathing again, see if his fingers still moved.

Besides, he thought as he began to walk along the empty sidewalk; there was a lonely terrier in an empty apartment who needed his company.

.o.

**the end.**

.o.

**Tonight, tonight,**

**It all began tonight,**

**I saw you and the world went away...**

**Tonight, tonight, **

**There's only you tonight,**

**What you are, what you do, what you say...**

**Today, all day I had a feeling**

**A miracle would happen**

**I know how I was right.**

**For here you are,**

**And what was just a world is a star!**

**Tonight!**

**-"Tonight", West Side Story**

.o.

**Author's Note: **And that's it. It's over. I would like to say that the idea of killing Blink, Jack, and West came from the movie "West Side Story", not from my twisted mind. (Sending Tempest to the police was my idea, though. Feel free to hate me for that.) I would make some amazing speech about how it's been an amazing run, et cetera, et cetera, but I'm not going to bore you with all that shit. It's over, and I'm bummed out. I hope you're bummed out too. ;-) Anyway, thanks to all reviewers, you have made my life WONDERFUL!! And now I'm afraid I must say buenos noches, señoritas — until next time. :-D Adios!

-Saturday


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